


Round We Go

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Character Death, Descriptions of sexual acts, Drug Use, First first meetings, Happy ending - I promise, Immortality, John goes for lots of walks, M/M, Reincarnation, Serious self harm, Sherlock really likes kissing, Soul mate fic, Suicide, The birth of the homeless network, The unnecessary ruination of a perfectly good (or extremely atrocious) jumper, Violence, attempted suicide, death of a child, homophbic slurs, loss and mourning, lots of sad angst:(, mainly Sherlocks POV but there is a bit of John's POV in the later chapters, not s3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: “According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.” - Plato’s The SymposiumSherlock has lived one life, watching John live many and will continue to watch John live, and die, until John realises that Sherlock is the half of him that has been bee missing since forever.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just another fic I have had in the works for a while now. I thought, maybe posting what I had so far would drive me to actually finish it!!!
> 
> It is the first time I have dealt with - I suppose you could call it magical realism - so, with any luck, it turns out okay! 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and as always, kudos, comments and hugs are always greatly appreciated, accepted and gratefully reciprocated :D
> 
> NTW

 

_“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.”_

_\- Plato’s, The Symposium_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

**2012**

If I could have moaned I would have.  Loud and long.  My entire body ached.  No, that was the understatement of a lifetime.  My body screamed with pain, even if my mouth couldn’t.  It was nothing like I had ever felt before, and I had been through some serious shit.

But here I was, on the ground outside of St Barts Hospital, splintered, fractured, shattered bones, ruptured organs, well, at least except for the most important one, but even so, that was temporarily not at its fullest functioning capacity. 

 Thought.   That is all my brain was capable of at the moment.  Everything else ceased to work.  In all sense I, to the outside world, was dead.  I’m sure it would be better if I were.  If I were dead I would not be feeling this excruciating pain.  God forbid my brain stop receiving information.  It had certainly stopped transmitting it.  

And, oh god, my head.  Did I land on it first? I can’t remember, but it hurt the most, out of everything else.  I was going to have one hell of a headache when I fully came back on line. 

 But right now it was all worth it.  James Moriarty was dead - _finally_  - and John Watson was safe.  

To be truthful, though, I was glad that I couldn’t respond, because at that moment I didn’t know if I could have stayed still long enough for this plan to work.  I didn’t know if could stop myself from reaching out and comforting the man I had loved many lifetimes over.  Of all the times I had witness this man die, it was the first time that John Watson had seen me die and the look on Johns face… well, there was no other way to put it.  It was heart shattering, and that is saying a lot for someone whose heart is currently physically broken.  

The pain raging through my body increased tenfold as I heard John call out, pushing his way through the crowd; as I saw that look on John’s face when he saw my body, broken, on the ground; as I saw the look in John’s eyes as he realised there was no pulse in my limp wrist.  I had thought that the cry that left John’s mouth at that moment was the most heart-wrenching, mournful sound I would ever hear in my life.  I was wrong.  The sound, as the paramedics loaded me onto the stretcher and rolled me away from John, restraining the smaller man from following, was infinitely worse, and I hoped to god that I never heard it again.

All thoughts of John were pushed aside, but not forgotten, as I was taken to the emergency room where a team of doctors and nurses tried, unavailingly, to revive my broken body, only to call my death at 2:47 pm May 4th 2012.

After that it was the tedious, _uncomfortable_ , task of being stripped, bagged and placed in the fridge at the morgue by that incompetent morgue attendant, Giles, (probably a good thing Molly had finally gotten around to going on that date),  until my insufferable brother decided that he would finally come to ‘ _view and identify_ ’ the body.  At least the time he took to stop stuffing his face and get his fat arse down to the hospital gave my body to time to heal, so when I finally felt my tray being pulled out of the fridge and I heard my brother tell the idiot, Giles to leave the room, I was able to finally take a decent, deep, much needed breath, once the plastic bag I had been encased in was unzipped.

“Oh, god, I never want to do that again” I gasped as my lungs filled with air and the headache I had anticipated came flooding in, causing me to squint and my vision to sway.  I went to sit up, but my brother placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You are supposed to be dead, brother.  Perhaps not sit up, lest someone walk in.”

“If you don’t mind, Mycroft, I would much like to get out of this godforsaken bag and back into my clothes, if it is all the same to you.”

My brother smiled down at me, that smarmy, condescending one that he has and I glared back up at him, as best as my throbbing head would allow me without flinching once again.

“In due time, Sherlock.  But first, I need to get you out of here before someone actually decides that it is time to take a scalpel to you and carry out the autopsy which is scheduled at the next shift change.”

He was right, and I hated it when he was right, so I changed the subject.  “John?” I asked, and the smug look fell away from my brothers face.  

“He will be fine” Mycroft told me gently.  “He is currently at home with Gregory.  The sleeping pills kicked in over an hour ago.”

“I thought you said Lestrade would be looking after him” I snapped which caused an exaggerated huff of incredulity to leave my brothers lips.

“You have known Gregory for over a hundred years, Sherlock.  Isn’t it about time you stopped deleting his name.”

I shrugged, as well as my recently re-established muscles and tendons would allow.  “When it no longer becomes fun, I may consider it” I muttered.  

“Indeed” Mycroft drawled and started to zip the bag up again.

“Wait, wait wait” I hissed out, bringing my hand up to stop the zip from moving any further.  “What are you doing?”

A supercilious eyebrow was cocked in my direction which made me glare harder, pain in my head be damned.

“I know that you have been, ‘ _off line_ ’ as you like to put it, for the past two hours and forty-nine minutes, but surely you must realise that your corpse cannot be wheeled through the hospital with the body bag open.  Even for you, that would be a bit eccentric.”

I lowered my hand and relaxed my face a bit.  Once again, he was right.  Drat.

“So, now that we have established why I am the smart one,” my glare increased once again, “can we get ready, before one of my men come in and find what is supposed to be a dead man acting like a temperamental child, and zip you up so I can have you transferred to a private facility to overlook your post mortem care.”

“Fine” I muttered and relaxed as well as I could, knowing I was going to be essentially wrapped back up in plastic.  Mycroft went to zip the bag up once more when, once again, I stopped him.  “Promise you will look after him” I say and a look befell my brothers face.  A look that I had not seen since 1872, When Lestrade had watched his youngest die at the age of 46 with what would soon be referred to as Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.  It had been longer still since that look had been directed at me.

“I would just as soon as lose my own half than allow anything to happen to yours without doing everything in my power to stop it from happening” he told me and I know that in order for him to utter those words then they must be true. 

“Thank you” I say with as much sincerity as I could muster.  Due to the fact that I was talking about John’s safety, it wasn’t hard to sound genuinely sincere, nor to be thankful for those who were making it possible.

“Good luck brother.  I will see you in two months” Mycroft said, and zipped up the bag once more.  It wasn’t long before there was no more oxygen inside the bag and my lungs ceased to move up and down.  It was not much longer that Mycrofts men came to take me away, from Bart’s, from Mycroft, from London and from John.

 


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John for the very first times and his whole life changes.

_“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope...I have loved none but you.”_

_\- Jane Austen, Persuasion_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

**1874**

The first time that I saw him I perceived the man to be the ordinary type.  Average height, even if a bit above average weight, a head of auburn hair, dressed well, with a moustache that made me just a bit jealous, as I myself, was unable able to grow anything besides an uneven smattering of hair upon my own lip and chin, which took far too long for such poor results to bother about.  It was clear he came from a hardworking family.  He himself was a writer of some sort, if the ink on his left thumb and shirt cuff were anything to go by.  He had a genuine friendly smile and the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen.  In fact, upon first glance I had been sure that they were brown, but standing directly in front of him it was clear that they were, indeed, blue.

“Mister Watson” Mrs Hudson announced as she followed him into the room.  “This is Mister Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock” she said, turning to face me.  “Mister Watson has come about the ad in the paper.”

Mrs Hudson left us to discuss the terms of the position I had advertised, late yesterday afternoon.

“I must press that the position is quite demanding, and I may require your assistance at any time of the day or night” I told him, with which he gave a curt nod to indicate that he understood.  

“I assume you are a man of strong constitution, and will not be prone to fainting at the site of certain bodily fluids or at the smell of long deceased bodies.”

“My grandfather was a doctor, Mister Holmes, and I used to do rounds with him up until he died.  I was going to follow in his footsteps, but when my father was killed in a shipping accident my chances of going off to study were laid to rest as my mother was unable to pay the fees.  I am familiar with anatomy as well as basic chemistry despite currently writing articles for the Daily Telegraph for a living.  Nothing too fancy, just local events.  It pays the bills.”

“Then why are you seeking further employment?” I asked curiously, wondering why an employed man would be seeking further job prospects.

“To be honest, Mister Holmes, it was the addition of offered board.  You see, my uncle who had moved in with us, not three years after my father died has depleted all of the  savings that my father had put aside for us by gambling it away, and it was only brought to my attention two months ago.  Had my mother come to me sooner I would have put a stop to it, but alas, she kept quiet until the bank came knocking on the door, demanding repayments.  I did have a tidy sum myself put away but have since handed it over to my mother, who still has two of my sisters living at home, under the strict instruction that my uncle leaves the premises. I would move in with them, but living with two young women who cry at the drop of a hat and start bellowing when they are not crying as well as my mother, who is lovely in her own way, was far more trouble than it is worth.  My work at the Telegraph is not enough for me to board on my own anymore, without my savings to fall back on.  Please do not for a minute think that my job, writing articles for the local paper will in any way hinder my ability to assist you, for I can guarantee that your work will always come first.”

I pondered on the man’s application for the position briefly.  He was a man acclimatised to the way that the body worked, and had a basic comprehension in chemistry.  He seemed a fairly easy man to get along with and appeared neat and respectable looking.  I supposed that if it didn’t work out I could give him his leave and re-advertise the position.

“A fortnights trial” I offered and the two of us shook on it, to seal the deal.

The following day Mister Watson proved most useful indeed.  It was the case of Lord Fellowsmith that changed my life, and not for the case itself.  In fact, the case was rather dull and laughably easy to solve.  Fellowship’s new bride had gone missing - abducted according to Fellowsmith -along with the jewellery she had received as a wedding gift from her new husband, not two nights previous.  It was clear that she had in fact, not been abducted, but run away with her real husband of four years, jewels and a large amount of cash in tow.

It was during the chase to retrieve said jewels when my entire life changed.  That night I felt the earth come to a standstill.  Everything around me seemed to fall away.  Everything except the man on top of me.  Everything except for John Watson and I knew, in that instance, laying in a muddy puddle with my assistant sprawled over my front, that I had found the part of me that had been missing for the past 34 years.  

My parents were what, amongst the few like them who actually existed, were called forevers.  My mother, back in 1618 had met my father and fallen in love.  At that point in time, from the moment she had realised this, she had stopped.  She would not age, she would not fall ill, she would not die.  Since that time she watched the man that held the other half of her soul die twice before, in 1732, he too fell in love with her.   When that happened, he too stopped.

In 1833 they defied the odds of their kind and had a child.  They called him Mycroft.  Seven years later they achieved the impossible and had a second child.  This one they named Sherlock.  The reason it was so unusual for forevers to have children was that the gene that kept them alive eternally was not hereditary, and nobody wanted to watch their children grow, age and then die whilst they continued on.  The human body realised this and somehow managed to evolve to be less likely to reproduce, but then again, the Holmes’ have always done things their own way.

In 1870 the Holmes family defied all odds once again when my brother met Gregory Lestrade.  It was on that day, in July, that he too stopped.  Unlucky for him Lestrade was married with three children.  Lucky for him it turned out that Mrs Lestrade had a habit of taking other men in to her marital bed whilst her husband was at work.  Once this heinous deed was discovered he sent her to live with her aunty in Wales.  She gladly went and left the children with him.  This gave my brother a chance to step up and play the hero and despite the fact that it was an abomination for a man to lay with another man, it was clear that these two were inexorably in love with each other and not even two years later, Lestrade had also stopped after finally realising that he loved my brother.  Mycroft was fortunate, in a way that he would never know, that he had never had to watch the one he loved die only to then wonder when he would find him next.  Our mother like to frequently remind him of this fact.

That just left myself.  It was often that I found myself under the pitying glances of my family, for it was unheard of for one offspring to have the forever gene.  It was impossible for both to also inherit it.  But that was fine with me.  It wasn’t like I was looking for a partner.  I had the work, and that was all that mattered.  

At least, it was all that mattered until that night in January 1874, not even 48 hours after meeting John Watson, that I realised I had been missing something my entire life.  That something was the man who was currently lying atop of me, in a muddy puddle, panting with the thrill of the danger, blue eyes wide as he tried to ascertain if I was well.  The man who had just pushed me out of the way of a runaway horse.  The man who had risked his own life to save mine.  It was at that moment that the Holmes’ broke the rules once again, and I too stopped.  

From that night on life was good.  I just had to wait for Watson to realise his own love for myself and then life would be wonderful.  While I waited we continued together professionally.  He assisted me with my scientific work, which he was only just acceptable at, (mainly because he became frequently distracted) and also with my detecting work which, despite his lack of observation of the blatantly obvious, he was far more than acceptable at.  In his spare time he typed up our cases and submitted them to the paper, changing our names as I was not fond at the thought of receiving the recognition that would come from the stories he told, which received such popularity.  The tales of Sherrinford Owens soon became a regular in the Daily Telegraph with regular demands for more.  It turned out that Watson was a master story teller, even if it did take him an abysmally long time to type out each word, but for all of his imperfections I continued to find him more and more perfect, falling in love with him, just that bit more, every day.  So it was safe to say that the day Mary Morstan entered out lives, some eight years later, I found myself completely gutted.

It was during a rather enthralling case involving a missing father, hidden treasure and murder.  The climactic ending was thwarted, though, by my dear Watson’s proposal of marriage towards Miss Morstan.  Not even six months later they were wed, where I had to  pretend to give my blessing or risk losing Watson as even just a friend, yet I could not hold this atrocity against my dear friend, for on that day he looked happier than I had ever made him.  Those blue eyes of his twinkled all day and his mouth not once lost its smile.  I on the other hand went home, leaving the wedding early, and indulged in a 7% solution I had previously promised my Watson I would never touch again.

Had I thought that watching Watson marry Mary to be worst day of my life, I had been grossly incorrect.  It was not two years later that I came across a mathematics professor going by the name of James Moriarty.  The man was to turn out to be my nemesis.  My arch enemy.  A mastermind criminal who wanted me out of the way.  Moriarty left me not only afraid for my life, but also that of Watson’s and the final case found all three of us in Switzerland.  It was there that I realised, that in order to escape Moriarty and to keep Watson safe, I needed to fake my own death.  I needed to leave Watson with the possibility of never seeing him in this life time again.  It was there that, leaving a note for Watson, I plunged over the edge of the Richenbach falls, taking Moriarty with me.

Making sure all traces of Moriarty were gone, and ensuring that it was safe to return, took me three years.  Three years of not knowing what my dear friend was doing, or if he was okay, but eventually it was safe for me to return and when I did, it was to find Watson, well and happy.  He had hugged me when I turned up on his doorstep, laughing and calling me amazing, stating that only I could fake a death to be so believable.  It was not the welcome that I had expected.  I had expected to be punched, maybe even throttled, but as always, Watson surprised me and it wasn’t until I felt his arms around me that I realised how much I had missed this man.  

Mary’s reception of my return was another story.  Sure enough, she was polite, and when Watson was in the room she smiled nicely at me, but when left alone it was certain that she was not as happy about my presence in her husbands life as what her husband was.  To start off with Watson was oblivious to her distaste towards my association with him, but it soon became palpable enough for even him to notice and this caused arguments between husband and wife.  It was at this time that I distanced myself from the couple, in order for them to console their differences and continue to be happy as they obviously had been during my absence and while I didn’t cut Watson out of my life completely, (I was far to selfish to be so chivalrous), I didn’t include him as much as I did before the fall.  

As it turned out this was only a short term problem, as eight years to the day, after I turned up on Watson’s doorstep announcing that I was in fact alive, Mary Watson died from consumption.  I knew I should have been grieving for my friend, but I could barely conceal my Joy when Watson requested his old room back at Baker Street.  

For nine years the two of us continued with my scientific research and solving crimes that appeared to be above the local police force’s capabilities.  We fell back into our rhythm and I continued to love Watson.  I was even certain that sometimes, when he looked at me, he felt the same, but then he would look away and things would continue on as they were.  

On Watson’s sixty-fifth birthday I decided that London was no longer the place for him.  He had spent thirty years chasing after me, and while the last ten years had been more detecting and less chasing, I could tell that he was no longer up to the task, not that he would admit it.  I too was tired.  It was hard, pretending to be sixty-four years old.  Every morning I had to don my disguise and act like I was slowly slowing down.  It was time to make the move.  

I had a cottage in Sussex.  It had an apple orchard and bee hives.  There was plenty of space for Watson to grow vegetables and the nearest neighbour was a fifteen minute walk away.  I could tend the bee hives and Watson could type up the last of our adventures.  Eventually I would be able to completely drop my disguises and acts.  It would be a wonderful way to retire.  I refused to tell myself that I was making Watson’s final years as comfortable for him as possible.  After all, there was still a possibility that he would realise his love for me, and then there would be no final years.

Six years we lived together in the country.  Watson never got his vegetable garden going, but he did learn to make apple cider.  I tended my bees, making honey for our breakfast and Watson typed up the last of our ridiculous adventures.  It took him longer these days, as his hands had developed arthritis, but he pecked away at the keys of his type writer and eventually they were all finished.  

It was three weeks and two days after he had finished typing the last story when he developed a cough.  It was nothing, he would tell me, and I believed him.  Within days he developed a fever and was bedridden, unable to move due to aching limbs and constant coughing.  When his breath came out in wet wheezes I finally ignored his protestations and called for the local doctor.  

Pneumonia.  My dear Watson had pneumonia and the imbecile of a doctor wanted me to leave his side.  I refused to leave our house and instead made myself useful, aiding the doctor when I could to help rid my friend of this disease that was ravaging his body.  After three days Watson became worse and the doctor told me that there was nothing more to be done, except continue to try and keep him cool and comfortable while his body got ready to pass on.  I told him to leave.

For the two days following I dropped the pretence and disguises of being aged while I tended to Watson’s needs myself.  I sat with him day and night, sponging cool water onto his brow and keeping the shivers at bay by pulling his blanket up high.  I held his hand when he became distressed and waited for him to calm. I emptied his mouth of the mucous that developed with the cough that was the only thing that seemed to get stronger.  In his brief moments of lucidity I regaled stories of out time together, making him smile on two occasions.  I watched as, in a few short days, his body wasted away and when he completely lost consciousness I sat by his bed and held his hand, not saying a word, until he let out one final rattled breath and didn’t take another one.  

It was at that point in my life that I was glad I only had half a heart, for if  that is what feeling half a heart break felt like, I was sure that feeling a full one break would be utterly unbearable.  That night, for the first time since I had met John Watson, I cried, for I had lost the man I would forever hold close to my heart and although I knew he would be out there again, at another time, I did not know when or where I would meet him next. It could be in a year, or it could be in a hundred.  I just had to continue waiting and hoped that I would know him when I saw him, and that next time round he would love me as I knew I would love him.

 


	3. A Brief Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds John again, six years later. Unfortunately, fate steps in and Sherlock finds himself once again alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have placed the warning at the end of this chapter so as not to ruin the chapter before you even get to read it. If any of the tags are triggers, please scroll to the end first to read the warning.

_When I was one I’d just begun,_

_When I was two I was nearly new,_

_When I was three I was hardly me,_

_When I was four I was not much more,_

_When I was five I was barely alive,_

_But now I am six! I am as clever as clever!_

_And I think I’ll stay six now for ever and ever!_

_\- A.A Milne, Now We Are Six_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

**1916**

I made my way back home  through the park.  It had been a false lead.  A waste of my time.  I could have been measuring the rate of saliva coagulation, but no.  Instead I had been chasing an empty lead that Lestrade had sent me on.  I would have to have words with my brother about his other half.  This was the second time this month that he had given me false - or more likely, incorrect - information.  I didn’t want the details of what Mycroft and the Detective did that caused Lestrade to become so distracted, but it needed to stop.  It was now negatively effecting me and that was just not on.  

I walked through the park thinking about the foot that was in the ice box at home when I was stopped by an unsure voice.

“Excuse me mister” the small lisped voice said from behind me.  I stopped and looked around to the boy.  Age around six or seven, light brown hair, two front teeth missing, (that would be the cause of the lisp), short for his age, thin.  Too thin.  He came from a poor family, food wasn’t a luxury.  Clothes, second hand, patched and then re-patched, stained knees, faded tee-shirt pants rolled up.  Eyes.  Brown, no - blue.  Deep, navy blue.  

I was suddenly taken back to six years ago when he had seen the light in those exact same eyes close for the last time.  Or so I thought, but here they were again.  Younger and smaller, but there was no mistaking them.  Those were the eyes of John Watson.

“Could you please help me get my kite out of the tree” The little boy said.  For a moment I couldn’t move.  I had found him.  Again.  The other half of my soul.  “Please.  It’s just you are really tall, and I can’t reach it.  I don’t want to pull on the string ‘cause it might rip my kite.  My dad will be mighty mad if it breaks.  I just got it for my birthday on Wednesday.”

I finally realised what the boy, John, was saying to me and shaking my head to clear my thoughts I looked up to where John was pointing.  Sure enough, in the lower branches of a horse-chestnut tree was a bright red and blue kite.  I walked over to the tree and reached up.  It took a bit of gentle tugging to get the kite out of the branches without causing damage to the simple toy, but before long I was handing it down to the mousy looking little boy.

“Thanks mister” beamed the boy, obviously happy to get his kite back in one piece.

“You are welcome, John Watson” I replied with a small smile.  I had found my John.  Again.

The small boy looked up at me, his eyes wide with awe.  “How did you know my name?” he whispered in amazement, as if I had just performed the world’s greatest magic trick in all the world.

I crouched down in front of John so I could look him in the eyes, those wonderful, familiar eyes, without the small boy having to crane his neck back.  “I am a detective” I told him.  “It is my job to know these things.”

“Wow” John whispered.  “Do you know any other things about me?” he asked.

I did another quick look over John.  “You turned six on Wednesday, you just had a haircut, maybe two days ago.  Your mum cut your hair.  Your clothes are second hand, possibly handed down from an older brother, you lost your first tooth less than a week ago and the second one early this morning.  You have a cat, a black and grey one, and you had porridge for breakfast this morning.”

The boy just stared at me, eyes wide, jaw dropped.  Finally, after seven full seconds, he spoke.  “That.  Was. Amazing.  Can you do any other magic tricks?”

I grinned, holding back the chuckle at John’s praise.  Some things obviously never changed.  “It is not a magic trick.  It is a skill.  Anyone can learn it.”

“Even me?” John asked hopefully.

I thought back on all of the times he had tried to encourage John’s ability to be able to observe and deduce, and while he was better at it than most, he still lacked quite a bit.  Maybe starting from an early age would have better results.

“As I said, John.  Anyone can do it.”

“Can you show me?” I looked around the park.  It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go.  The foot had waited this long, it could wait a bit longer. Even if it couldn't, nothing in this world could pull me away from John right now.  I sat on the grass to get more comfortable and faced John.  

“I know you turned six because you look six.  You are too tall to be five, but not yet tall enough to be seven” ( _that and I lost you six years ago last Wednesday_ ), “I can tell that you got your hair cut recently as there are still straight edges.  Hair grows unevenly, so after you have had a haircut it doesn’t stay very straight for very long, and although it is a very good haircut, it is by no means at a professional standard.  Going by the state of your clothes I would say your family doesn’t have very much money, therefore your mother cut you hair.  The clothes you wear are a little bit too big and are clearly not new, therefore hand me down.  I can tell they are from an older sibling, most likely a brother as they are boy’s clothes, by the patches.  The old patches are sewn the exact same way as the new patches, more than likely both sewn by your mother.  I can tell that you lost your first tooth over a week ago by the way that the gum has healed and I know that you only lost the second one today because there is still a gap in the gum.  The cat was easy.  You have multiple cat hears, some black, some grey, some two-toned, which leads me to believe that the hairs are from one cat, not two, and I know you had porridge for breakfast because you dripped some on your shirt” and with that I used my finger to scratch the now dried porridge off of Johns Shirt.  “Did I get anything wrong?” I asked marvelling at the look of admiration in Johns little eyes.

John started to shake his head and then stopped himself.  “Mr Whiskers isn’t my cat.  He lives with Mrs Baxter next door, but she lets me pat him if he is sleeping on the steps.  He likes to have his ears rubbed.”

“Well, he must be a very lucky cat to have the attentions of a very special boy, John” I tell him.  John beamed up at me and again his eye shone.  Six years.  It had been six years since I had seen those eyes and although I was overjoyed to have found John again I was frustrated.  What was I going to do with a six year old boy?  I had never been around a child before.

John sat down on the grass next to me, his kite still grasped in his chubby little hands.  “Can you do that with any one or just me?” he asked.

“Pick anyone in the park” I told him and John pointed to a large man resting on the bench.  _Mid-forties, banker, married, two children, watches women through their windows at night_.  I might want to leave that fact out when explaining to John.  And I do.  I deduce every person that John points out for the next hour and every time I explains it John praises me with _Amazing_ and _Fantastic_ or _Brilliant._

Throughout that hour I decided that I could not let John slip away.  What if the family were to move and I never found John again.  I couldn’t wait for another life time to have John back in my life.  I couldn’t very well take John.  Even with Mycroft’s position in the British Government it would still be a case of a b _it not good_ and I would possibly land myself in Jail, or possibly a psychiatric institution.  Plus, John would resent me for taking him away from his family.  Maybe I could sponsor John.  Pay for him to have decent clothes and a good education.  That might work.  When he was a bit older I could employ him as an assistant.  Mycroft would help set it all up.

“I have to go now” John said, standing up, pulling me out of his thoughts once again.  “It is getting late and my mum doesn’t like it when I am out and it is too dark.”

I stood up next to John.  “Thanks for showing me your trick.  It was really good.  George will be so miffed that he didn’t come to the park with me now.”  John wound the tail of his kite up and stuck it in his pocket along with the string and clutched the red and blue diamond to his chest.  “What is your name?” He asked me.

“Sherlock Holmes” I answered the small boy.  John wrinkled his nose and grinned up at the taller man.  

“That sure is a funny name” he said.  “It was nice to meet you Mr Sherlock Holmes” he said holding out his little hand and I took it in my much larger hand and gave it a little squeeze before John gave mine an overzealous shake.  “Will you be here tomorrow?” He asked, hope shining in his little eyes.

I smiled down at John.  “Only if you will be here to show me how that wonderful kite of yours works” I answered.  Again, John beamed up at me and I decided that I could never have enough of that smile.

“I will see you tomorrow then, Mr Sherlock” and with that he let go of my hand and turned and half ran, half skipped out of the park.  I stood, watching as John skipped-ran around the corner, thinking about the proposition I would make to John’s parents.  It needed to be offered properly, so as not to offend the Watson’s.  Mycroft was needed.  Mycroft was much better at dealing with the people side of things.  Slowly I headed off out of the park, in the same direction as little John Watson had left, my hands in my coat pocket.  I had only walked a block over when I saw a crowd gathered.  Someone was wailing while another person was yelling for a doctor.  There had been an accident.  I decided that there was nothing that I could do and continued to walk past when something caught my eye.  It was a splash or bright red and blue snagged in a nearby bush.  Something cold and vicelike gripped my stomach as I moved closer to the bush and the whole world dropped away as my hands reached out to grab the red and blue kite.  Suddenly everything came back into focus.  The screaming woman the sound of people scuttling about, a man crying over and over again ‘ _I didn’t see him.  He was so small and I didn’t see him’_.  I slowly turned to the commotion behind me.  I wasn’t aware of my feet carrying me toward the crowd and I wasn’t aware of myself pushing past all of the people.  What I was aware of was the pain that seared through my chest when I saw the small body lying on the road, an old woman fussing over it, trying to ascertain the damage done.  Without realising I had moved I found myself kneeling next to a bloodied and bruised John Watson.  The small boy’s breaths were coming out in short painful gasps.  He opened his eyes and I found myself looking down into the other half of my soul.  

“Mister…” John tried to speak, but his words came out wheezy.  He managed to lift one arm up towards me but it dropped down straight away. Quickly, I shuffled closer, gently picking up the boy and holding him close to my body.

“John”, I sobbed into the light brown hair.  “You’ll be okay.” I wasn’t sure if I was reassuring John or myself.  “I just found you.  You can’t leave me again.  And tomorrow you are going to show me how to fly your kite.  I have it, see” I said holding up the kite.  “It didn’t blow away.”

I could see that John tried to smile, but it was too painful or too hard, or both. “Thanks Mister Sherlock” he wheezed, “I am glad I met you today.”

I choked back the sob.  “And I am glad I met you too John Watson” I whispered, holding the boy closer.  John smiled at me one last time before his bright eyes dulled and the small body went limp in my arms.  I could no longer hold the sob back as it ripped from my throat.

Again.  I had lost my John, again and it had been worse than the last time.  Last time we had seen it coming.  That John had been an old man, safe and warm in his bed.  This John was only six years old, so young and vibrant and so full of life.  He still had so much to offer the world and it had all been taken away because someone hadn’t seen him.  I would never understand that statement.  How anyone could miss a soul, even half of one, that shone as bright as John Watson’s, I would never understand.

I held the small body tighter and rocked it back and forth, not caring about the tears falling down my face.  “I will find you again John Watson” I whispered, burying my face in the boy’s soft hair.  “I will find you and I promise that I will not let you go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter is where the 'Death of a child' tag kicks in. It was actually inspired by an anti-drink-driving campaign that aired on Australian TV a few years back, where a small child reads out this poem. It used to make me cry and for some reason it always stuck in my memory. If this is a trigger of any sort, please skip and move onto the next chapter, and apologies if anyone found this unsettling in any sense.


	4. No More I Love You's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock once again finds John, and once more, life is good. So good, in fact that Sherlock feels it is time that he tells John how he feels.

_“Its like drowning but you just won't fucking die.”_

_\- Urban Dictionary, on the topic of Unrequited Love._

_~~~~~~~~~~_

**1940**

It was too early to be dealing with rascals digging through my landladies garbage bins, but the persistent woman would not let me go back to sleep until I had ascertained that the person in our back yard was more likely to be a homeless person looking for either shelter or food, rather than a nazi sympathiser looking for secret plans and coded messages amongst her daily waste. What she expected me to do with this person was beyond me, as they would surely return the following night, despite what threats I made, but unless I wanted the woman to leave me alone I had no choice but to go out and stop the person from trying to find some form of sustenance or a warmer place to sleep for the night.

As I made my way down the stairs I cursed Mr Turners audacity of being killed in the war, leaving his wife and daughter without someone to protect them and muttered to myself about not being a body guard for hire, available at all hours of the night.  What I wouldn’t give to have Mrs Hudson back, but the poor dear had passed away back in 1902, leaving the house to her wretched cousin and her family.

I reached the ground floor of our apartment and made my way back to her flat, quietly walking through the kitchen to the back door and silently eased it open.  Sure enough, around the corner of the building, there was the sound of something rifling though her rubbish bin.  It could have been a badger if it wasn’t for the off key humming that was accompanying the rifling.

“I can assure you, there is nothing of use in that bin” (it was true, Mrs Turner was frugal to the point where not a crumb of food was wasted) “So I suggest you stop you search here and move it on somewhere else.”

The boy, no, man, looked up and I instantly froze.  Even in the dim pre-dawn light, those eyes were recognisable, even if the rest of the face were that of a complete stranger.

Under of mop of dirty black curls, peered out at me, the eyes of John Watson.  There was no mistake about it.  “John” I whispered, disbelievingly.  Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say as at the sound of his name, a spooked look dropped over his face and he turned and ran, scaling the fence with practiced ease.  

Finally finding myself, I took off after him, determined not to let him get away.  The amount of homeless people, in London alone, was astronomical.  The chances of finding John amongst the multitude was bound to be impossible.  I couldn’t let him get away.  

I scaled the fence and looked left then right.  I just caught a glimpse of the man, John, fleeing around the corner at the end of the street and I took off after him, but it was barely light and I was barefoot and in my pyjamas.  By the time I reached the corner and turned it, John was gone. 

~o~

I paced the floor of my flat over and over again.  I ignored Mrs Turner’s request that I stop, as well as Chelsea Turner’s demand that I stop, as the sound of my stomping was making it hard to listen to the radio.  I ignored Lestrade when he came over with a case and I ignored my brother, who was only here to appease his partner, who was apparently worried about me.

“Has this anything to do with the young man you scared out of your landladies bins in the early hours this morning?” Mycroft asked, ignoring my insinuation that he was not welcome in my home.  The only indication that he had hit a nerve was the slow faltering of my next step, before I picked up my pace again.

“I thought as much” my brother stated, sounding bored.

“I apologise if my problems are boring you, brother dear, but I did tell you to leave.  You needn’t bother yourself with my trivial worriments.”

A long resigned sigh left my brothers mouth as I ceased my pacing to instead opt to drop on the couch, spread out on my back, glaring up at the ceiling.

“I assume that this person has something to do with John?”

I frowned harder.  This was none of Mycrofts concern.  He would just tell me that I would find John when the time was right, and to stop fretting.  Easy for him to say.  He had watched Lestrade die exactly zero times.  I had watched, and held, John twice as he died.  It was not something I fancied doing ever again, so therefore I decided to forego my brothers speech and instead said,  “Don’t you have a war to stop, or something.”

“Hmm, yes.  I probably should get back to that” Mycroft hummed, pulling his pocket watch out and looking at the time.    “It appears that it may go on a bit longer than we first predicted.”

“Good, go” I responded and with that I rolled over on the couch, hoping that the view of my back would entice him to leave faster.  As hoped for, it worked and I listened as Mycroft stood up, picking up the ridiculous umbrella he had taken to carrying around lately and moved to the door.

“It will happen, Sherlock, you just need to be patient.”

“Leave” I practically yelled, although it was somewhat muffled due to my face being almost pushed up against the back of the couch, and he did precisely that.  It wasn’t until I heard the door downstairs close that I rolled over and resumed staring up at the ceiling.  

I had very little to go on, in the way of clues, for tracking down John Watson.  I knew he was homeless, early to mid twenties, was tall and gangly, had a mop of unruly black curls and lived on the streets.  And he had blue eyes that were so deep, they sometimes appeared brown.  

I steepled my hands under my chin and thought.  There had to be a way to track him down.  I refused to believe that it was an impossible endeavour, or that it would ‘ _just happen_ ’ as my brother so liked to blab on about.  

It was then that a thought occurred to me, one that had not done so before and standing up, I made my way downstairs, making sure I had coins in my pockets.  The homeless people of London were certainly many, but that sheer number may just help me find John, for surely of so many people, there must be some who would remember such a remarkable being, and having nothing they were bound to talk, should a bit of incentive be pushed there way.  The sound of the coins gently chinking together spurred me down the steps faster than before.

~o~

The homeless people of London proved to be a valuable asset, directing me to clues pertaining to a case I was unable to solve a few months back and most importantly to ‘ _John the music man.’_   It appeared, that the awful humming I had heard as John had rifled though our bins was a particular habit of John’s, and it was when, after rattling off Johns physical description for what felt like the thousandth time, I finally added that the person I was looking for liked to hum, that someone actually lit up and told me where John was, which is how I found myself sitting on a park bench, handing a sandwich from the cafe’ down the road from my apartment, to a young, desperate looking John Watson.  His first instinct, when he had seen me, was to run.  I could see it in his eyes, and the way his body twitched as it readied itself for escape, but the prospect of fresh, _clean,_ food had halted his attempts and the smell of beef and gherkin, a delicacy for even some of those with homes, was too much to pass up, so after eight days of scouring through the dirtiest parts of London, and conversing with some rather questionable characters and passing along quite a bit of money, I had finally found John.  My John.  

“I apologise if I scared you the other night” I said, as John tried not to scarf the first decent meal he had had in a long while.  At the mention of our first meeting I sensed him stiffen slightly and I instantly felt the need to fix the situation.  “I’m not here to further reprimand, you are not in any trouble, if that is what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried” John replied, and I was somewhat surprised that he spoke clearly and properly and without slang.  His accent was standard London, and in just those three words I could tell that he was somewhat educated.

“What was it that you did, John, before you became homeless?”

“How do you know my name?” John asked, ignoring my question.

The truth to that one was going to be hard to answer without sounding crazy and my end goal was to get John to come home with me, not scare him away for good.

“The person who told me where to find you told me your name.”  It wasn’t a lie exactly.

“Nope” John said around a mouthful of bread.  “You said the other night as well.  That’s why I ran.  Thought you might have been a friend of my da’s.”

That alone was telling.  John was running from his family for some reason.  I needed to reassure John that I was not here to take him back to his father.

“I can promise you that I have no idea who your father is, and you must have misheard the other night, for I cannot have said your name for I did not know it until this after noon.”

John gave me a somewhat dubious look, clearly ready to challenge me but then decided to  let it drop.  “My father was a general in the army.  When I wasn’t conscripted to join the army he tried to force me to do it.  I ran.  I have no wish to go and get shot at.”  John lifted his chin proudly, daring me to call him a coward for avoiding the war.  

“Then you would say that you are in need of a place to stay, and a form of employment, that is safe from any interference on your fathers behalf” I noted.  John looked at me through narrowed eyes before lowering his voice and speaking.  

“I’m flattered, sir, by you interest in me, but I am not in the habit of entertaining gentlemen, nor is my body for sale.  Thank you for the sandwich, but I must be off now.”

It took a few moments to realise that John had thought that I was employing him as a rent-boy of sorts and my hand quickly shot out to grab his wrist as he stood up to leave.

“No, John” I called, probably a bit too loud.  I tried again, this time softer.  “No, that is not what I meant” I explained and he turned back to look at me.  “What I meant was that I watched the way you scaled the wall the other night and you seem to know your way around London very well.”  My hand relaxed but did not let go of his wrist as I watched him give a small nod.  “How do you feel about detective work?”  I asked and I was pleased to see a small spark light up his eyes.

~o~

I watched as John wrote up our latest case in the journal I had bought him.  It was one of many that he had filled over the past four years.  He never let me read what he wrote and for once I respected someone else’s wishes and did not peek at the contents between the leather bound covers.  He never spoke about what he wrote but it was clear that it was the cases.  When one came along he would start writing whenever we had a spare moment, as was what he was doing now.  As the case progressed he would add to it, referring back to the notes in his little pocket book that he carried with him on cases.  Once the case was over he wrote furiously until a small satisfied smile crossed his features and he would shut the book until the next interesting client came along.

John had proven to be quite the asset to The Work.  His previous contacts with the homeless men and women had helped me build up a network of sorts, that proved to be quite useful in obtaining information that was otherwise practically impossible to get any other way.  He was fast on his feet and quick to follow instructions without questioning my logic.  He was probably less observant than his previous self’s but he was still forthcoming with the praise, frequently telling me that I was amazing or wonderful.  Despite having heard it all before, it still brought a smile to my mouth and sent a warm feeling through my body.  

Unfortunately those feelings were to become less and less frequent, as the case that we had just begun was to be the beginning of the end.  

It had begun with a woman, Lady Montgomery-Hughes, and her plight to catch her cheating husband in the act, for she was certain that he was misbehaving behind her back, she just could not for the life of her figure out who it was with.  So, that is what we did, John and I.  We caught her husband in the act with their long time friend, Sir Wallace, of whom Lord Montgomery-Hughes often played golf with.  His version of golf was apparently very much different to what society knew as golf and was also very much illegal.  I left the evidence with Lady Montgomery-Hughes to do as she liked and made my way home, but not before noticing the look on Johns face when we caught the two men together doing rather unorthodox things with their tongues.  At first I thought it was the shock of seeing the sex-act - not something well-to-do people would admit to partaking in, especially with someone of the same gender, but then I saw it for what it really was.  It was fear.  What it was fear of, I was unsure of, but as John watched the two men trying to cover themselves up, there had been fear in his eyes, but not only fear, but also a sense of sadness.  That night, John was not so eager to record the final results of the case.  It was the first time he had left a case unwritten.  

Surely the fact that two men would lay together was not a surprise to him.  It had been going on since the beginning of time, and while it wasn’t openly discussed amongst reputable people, it most certainly wasn’t hidden away either.  

I continued to puzzle Johns reaction but then another case came along and by the end of the new case, John had almost reverted back to his normal self and I thought no more of the look that had been on his face that evening.

As the year passed we continued solving puzzles and mysteries and I continued to fall more and more in love with John.  Every now and then he would smile at me, a smile that I had not seen him give anyone else, and my chest would feel like it was about to burst.  But then he would close of, a frown descending on his face as if he had a troubling thought that he couldn’t figure out and he would walk away.  His praise came less and less and while he still kept up his witty banter and easy conversation, he made less physical contact with me, not that it had been a great deal before hand.  I tried talking to him on numerous occasions, but he always answered that he was fine and reassured that, no, I had not done anything to anger him.  He would laugh it off, saying that he was just moody sometimes and it was left at that and we would continue to carry on as we always had.  

It was after John had been with me, again, for five years, a year after the Montgomery-Hughes case,  when everything went to hell once more.  There had been a lull in cases and I had been going out of my mind with boredom.  A week!  An entire week and I had had nothing to do.  It was after I had bellowed at Chelsea for dusting the bookshelves that John had decided that he needed to intervene, so, packing a basket he forced me to get dressed and then dragged me down to the park where we proceeded to eat food, graciously prepared by Mrs Turner (anything to get me out of the house and away from her overly hormonal daughter) and I made him laugh by telling him what the good people of London were trying to hide.  He in turn made me laugh by incorrectly deducing the most absurd things he could about a few of the ones I didn’t deem interesting enough to bother about.  By the time we had had enough the sun was starting to sink and I looked to my John as he lay on the grass, looking up at the clouds that were lazily floating along in the orange sky.  In the fading light he looked so young, younger than his 29 years and when he turned to look at me, flashing that wonderfully beautiful smile that he had, just for me, I couldn’t stop myself.  

“I love you, John Watson” I murmured quietly, so as the few stragglers in the park couldn’t hear and my hand brushed gently against his.  The smile seemed to still on John’s face and for a brief, blissful moment I was sure that he was going to tell me that he, too loved me in return. 

That was not to be the case.

Instead, the smile dropped from his face and that look, the one of fear and sadness, be-felled his features once more and I realised that I had made a grave error.

“John…” I started, but he cut me off, quickly sitting up and scooting over, further away from me.

“No” he said, and his voice came out with a slight quiver.  “I told you, I wasn’t for sale.  I’m not like that” he hissed and I quickly sat up too, desperate to undo what I had done wrong.

“No, John, that’s not what…”

“I should have known, the work I do isn’t worth a wage as well as accommodations, but I thought, maybe I had just got lucky.” John spoke quickly, more to himself than to me, and I was unable to get a word in, to dispel his assumptions.  “But after five years I really believed it.  I thought you just enjoyed my company.”

“John, I do, I honestly…”

“Why now?” he spat.  “Why…how…No” and he quickly got up and ran away.  It took a few seconds for me to register that he was leaving and by the time I got up and ran after him, the picnic basket forgotten, he was well and truly gone.  

With a heavy sigh I made my way back to baker Street, running over all the ways I could make this better.  I had to make this better.  I had to keep John from leaving me again.  

I trudged up the stairs to the flat B and wearily pushed the door open.  It was still inside. “John” I called out.  There was no reply.  I made my way up to his room and quietly knocked on the door.  When there was no answer, I pushed the door open.  The room was empty, just as John had left it that morning before we had gone out.  I made my way back downstairs and sat on the couch, waiting patiently for John to come home.

~o~

He never came.  After 24 hours I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to find him.  It wouldn’t be too hard.  He had no other friends or family to go to and when he had ran off, he had had very little money on him.  It only made sense that, while he calmed down he would go back to his old haunts - the streets of London, so that is where I would start, thankful once again for the network that I had built up.

It took over a month to find him again and when I did the sight almost broke my heart.  John was a proud man, and even homeless, he took better care of himself than any of the others around him, but still, to see him unshaven and re-wearing clothes, it made my stomach feel as if it were made of stone.  

“John” I greeted somewhat cautiously.

“Leave me alone” John replied, turning and walking away.  I took a few hurried steps towards him but stopped when I saw his spine stiffen.

“I appreciate everything you did for me, Sherlock, but I’m not a queer.”   I had very rarely heard John sound angry and it had never been directed at me, but the last five words were spat with such quiet, vehemence that I actually took a step back.  “If you’re worried I’ll report you to the police, don’t be” he reassured once he had taken a few calming breaths.  Now he just sounded miserable and I wanted to tell him that I didn’t care if he reported me.  I just wanted him to come back to Baker Street.  I would move out if it made it easier, but I couldn’t let him live like this, not knowing when his last meal would be.  And I did, I told him all of that, not too proud to mask the desperation in my voice, but it didn’t make a difference.

“I don’t want anything to do you with you, Mister Holmes” John finally said after a moments silence between us, and it was so quiet that I hardly heard him, but I knew I had lost him the second he called me Mister Holmes.  “Just let me be.”  It was then that he finally turned his head and looked at me, and I was surprised to see his eyes red and puffy, valiantly holding back the tears that were rimming the lower lids. “Please” he whispered and it was that which finally broke me.  Bowing my head, to hide the tears welling in my own eyes, I listened as John strode away from me,  

That afternoon I worked myself up into a right strop.  I was angry.  Angry at myself for being weak and giving in to sentiment.  If I had kept my bloody mouth shut, John would still be here.  I was angry at John, for walking out and not returning my love.  I was angry at the Turner’s for calling my brother once I started tearing Johns room apart, throwing his meagre possessions around, because he wasn’t coming back for them.  And angry at Mycroft for thinking he had the right to lecture me about waiting for the right time.  I had never seen my brother leave my presence in such a hurry, scared for his own safety.  It was the thought that within the next few days I would have a visit from Mummy that calmed me down and I sat in the middle of Johns trashed room and hugged by knees to my chest and just breathed, slowly controlling the breaths that went in and out.  In and out.  

I must have sat that way for a while for when I finally unwrapped my arms from around my legs, they practically groaned from being cramped up for so long.  

In the low light of the early evening I spotted one of Johns journals laying next to me, splayed open, the middle page half torn out.  I reached out and carefully closed the book and I noted that it was the faun coloured one.  The very first one I had bought John, not even two weeks after he had moved in after I had seen him scribbling notes in his little pocket book, cramming the writing onto the lines so it would all fit.  I picked it up and taking it over to the bed, I lit the lamp, which had miraculously survived my tantrum and sat on the now rumpled mattress and read the notebook.  By the end of the night I had skimmed through all of them, all twenty-one of them and I somehow felt better.  

Johns writings hadn’t just been a recount of our cases, as I had thought.  They had been a secret homage to me.  Every story had detailed, with great praise, all of my deductions and speculations.  He had described me in a most favourable and flattering light.  Even when he was detailing my downfalls, John had managed to make them seem positive.  John praised where praise should not have been given, but then, just over a year ago it had almost completely stopped.  Just after the case with Montgomery-Hughes.  

I had believed that John had not finished writing that case up, but while it didn’t have the adventurous flair that all of the others had, it had been completed, but it seemed to have also left the man confused.

‘ _How can two men lie together like that?  Surely they know it is an abomination.  It is wrong.  It is illegal.  What must go through their minds for them to finally give into the urge to go against God, to go against nature itself?  How can what they have be perceived as love when everyone around them tells them that it is wrong?  Why would they risk everything for a few moments of pleasure?  Surely they cannot truely believe it to be worth it, can they?  Is it?_ ’

I read that passage over and over again.  Doubt.  John had had doubts.  Was it possible that he had felt that way, but had buried the feelings deep under a sense of what was socially acceptable?  Was it possible that John had felt that way about me?  The evidence contained in these 21 journals certainly pointed to that conclusion, and it explained the look of sadness that had come over his face, the day Montgomery-Hughes had been discovered.  It wasn’t due to the case at all.  It was due to the fact that these men had clearly taken the steps towards what they wanted, something that John thought he could never have had for himself.  The stupid boy!  Of course he could have had it.  That and more.  Anything he had wanted from me, would have been his.  

As the sun came up, peeking through the window of Johns room, for it would be Johns again, I made a resolve to find John once more and explain all of this.  I would keep trying and I would wait, forever if I had to, because I knew that John loved me.  He just had to realise it himself.  

~o~

John Watson was missing.  I had scoured the streets of London for over four months before someone told me that he had left for Manchester.  From then on it was a journey across England, and then up into Scotland that took a further six months, following clues and rumours, only to find out that John had returned back to London.  I took the train, that night and set out on my search again before even returning to the flat.   Three days later my search came to an end.  Lestrade came in to tell me that a body had been found in an empty house, hanging from the beams.  When I angrily informed him, once again, that I was not taking on cases, he grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me to look at him. 

‘It isn’t a case, Sherlock” he told me and I instantly knew what he was going to tell me.  I shook my head.  It wasn’t possible, but he continued to speak, continued to bring my whole world crashing down.  “It’s John” he said and it was the pity in his voice, in his eyes that sealed it, that made me see the truth where I was sure it was all lies.  Lestrade never pitied me.  Said I was too much of an arrogant arse to deserve pity.  

“Take me” I whispered, looking to the side, seeing my pipe rest on the mantel.  I couldn’t look at Lestrade.  I couldn’t let him see the hurt I was feeling.  Again. 

“Sherlock, I really don’ think that that is a wise…”

“I didn’t ask what you thought, detective,” I snapped, no longer able to take the pity.  “I asked you to take me to the morgue.”

Without another word, Lestrade turned and left the room and I followed behind.

~o~

John’s body was so thin, well, it would have been if it wasn’t for the bloating that came from hanging in a damp cold house for four days before being found.  His neck was a mess of purple bruises and red raw skin.  His face was bloated, as were his fingers, but it was definitely my John.  

His hair was too long and his nails were too short.  He had sores on his body from not getting proper nourishment.  

His possessions were meagre and well used and laid out on a seperate table.  Looking over everything before me, it was clear that this was a suicide, not a murder.  I wanted to cry at that fact, the fact that John Watson had been so desperate and not aware that he had somewhere to turn to, but I couldn’t.  In fact, I didn’t feel anything.  I thought that was a terrible way to feel, but then I read the last page in Johns pocket book.  The same pocket book that he had had when he still lived with me.  All the pages were filled up with case notes and then it stopped.  Until one last entry.

‘ _I was happy.  I thought he was happy.  I know he thought he loved me, but he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  Why didn’t he leave us the way we were?  I could have been content with that.  It would have been enough, because there was no way it could have been more.  But now he is gone, and I can’t keep doing this.  Running away.  I’m tired.  I want to sleep_.’

Once I read that the feeling of nothing turned into a feeling of hollowness, which was infinitely worse than nothing at all.  When you feel nothing you feel, well, nothing.  When you feel hollow, you feel empty, like something is missing, like it will always be missing and it is your fault that that thing is missing.  It is worse.

I pocketed Johns notebook and left the morgue.  Mycroft would arrange a funeral.  

That night I gathered Johns journals and boxed them away with Johns meticulously typed cases and Johns red and blue kite.  Then I pulled the tile under my bathroom sink off of the wall and retrieved a small box from the hole within.  

That night I vowed that I would never tell John again that I loved him and for the first time in over sixty years, I got high.


	5. A High Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more John comes into Sherlocks life, but after last time Sherlock is reluctant to let this John into his life.

_“There are two kinds of guilt: the kind that drowns you until you’re useless, and the kind that fires your soul to purpose.”_

_\- Sabaa Tahir_ _,_ _An Ember in the Ashes_

 

 ****~~~~~~~~~~

**1965**

After nineteen and a half years the relief that came from a cocaine induced high still helped fill the emptiness that lived inside of me.  I wasn’t constantly high, not any more.  That appeal had worn off slightly after four years and two trips to a rehabilitation facility, courtesy of Mycroft.  It had worn off completely when Lestrade, now a Detective Inspector, banned me from all cases unless I cleaned up my act.  Now it was a once or twice a week thing.  Whenever thoughts of John got too hard.  It wasn’t thoughts of his malnourished, swollen corpse that sent me into a downward spiral, nor the look of saddened loss I had seen on his face the last time we spoke.  It was the thought that it was my actions that had, in the end, driven such a lively, wonderful man to take his own life.  It was then that guilt, a feeling I was not overly familiar nor at all comfortable with, set in and I couldn’t take it anymore.  Then the sweet sting of a needle calmed my nerves and the flood of liquid bliss soothed the noise in my head and I could breath easier and all thoughts of John fled my mind.  

I know I should have felt guilty at not wanting to think of the man I loved, but it was hard.  After 91 years of knowing that he was there, just waiting for him to realise that he loved me, of not knowing when I would see him or if I would lose him again.  It was tiring.  It was mentally exhausting.  

So it was with a guilt that I had become used to that I sat on the park bench and injected cocaine directly into my system.  It would be twelve minutes of pure wonderful bliss and then I would crash for twenty-four hours.  

It took mere seconds for the drug to take effect and when it did the world was instantly a better place.  With a serene smile on my face I pocketed the remainder of my supplies and headed off towards home, nattering to myself about the effects of prolonged exposure of frost on recently deceased flesh.  I was less than a block away when someone stumbled into me, or maybe I stumbled into them - to this day I am still not sure, but either way, the person of whom my body had a collision with reached out a hand and steadied what would have been a tumble to the ground on my behalf.  

“So sorry” the voice belonging to the hand said.  “Weren’t really watching where you were going there.”  The person didn’t sound annoyed, amused was more like it and I looked up at the person to explain just how very much I was watching where I was going, but the words died in my throat and all I could do was stare. 

“Are you quite all right?”  The young man asked and all I could do was nod at my John.  Even in my state of heightened awareness I knew it was John. Only one person had those eyes.  I had found him.  

“You seem a bit out of it, if you don’t mind me saying.”

My eyes roved over Johns new form.  He was tall and lanky, much like myself, and was dressed in dark green turtleneck with a yellow and blue knitted vest over the top.  His face was slim, adorned by a smattering of freckles over his nose and he wore a pair of round glasses, which did nothing to distract from his eyes.  In fact, they made them appear larger, making the blue stand out, even in the orange street light.  And his face was framed by the brightest, most orange curls I had ever seen on a man.  For reasons unknown to me, but may possibly have been due to the drugs, this fact sent me into a fit of laughter.

“Good lord.  You’re a ginger this time” I laughed and I was vaguely aware of tears pooling in my eyes.

“Right” the man, John, replied sounding slightly offended and he took a step back from me.  “Obviously you are fine, I’ll just be on my way, shall I” and with that he made to step past me.  

With lightning fast reflexes my hand shot out to grab his arm.  I was going to tell him to not go, to stay, but the way his body went rigid brought back memories I had pushed aside, memories of John pulling away from my touch, of me making him uncomfortable with who he really was.  Of his body, dead on a slab because he had killed himself.  Because I had been foolish enough to tell him that I had loved him.

Never again.

“I apologise” I murmured, reluctantly letting go of his arm.  “Your hair is actually quite fetching.”  I had to say something to explain why I had stopped him.  An apology was better than nothing.  John just gave me a tight smile and a short nod of his head.  “Good evening, sir” he said politely and walked away.

I watched him walk away, watched him go, further away until he turned at the next street and then I followed him.  I couldn’t let him leave me.  I couldn’t situate myself in his life again, but there was no reason why I couldn’t view it from afar.  So, I followed him home, keeping to the shadows and was surprised that he only lived two streets over from my own home.  The home we had once shared together.  I wrote the address in my small pocket book and then wearily made my way home, the surge of adrenaline, courtesy of the drugs I had injected into my system over half an hour ago now, had completely faded away and I was exhausted.  It had been at least three days since I had slept last, maybe even four.  So home I went and sleep I did, dreaming of John, all four of them and felt anguish as each one of them left me once again.

~o~

For twelve months I watched John.  I didn’t engage him, I didn’t introduce myself.  I just watched him, keeping out of his way and not making myself known to him.  It appeared he was a photographer, taking photos for various different newspapers, as well as some freelance stuff for private paying clients - nothing too sordid, though.  He had had a total of four girlfriends in the time that I had watched him and none serious enough to warrant moving in with him.  Friday nights he liked to go to the pub around the corner and play poker with a few of his mates.  On the weekends he usually went out of town.  

Once a month an older couple came to visit him.  Judging by the build of the man and the shape of the woman’s nose and lips I deduced them to be John’s parents.  They generally stayed for two nights and then left back to wherever it was they were from.  

He liked beer and cigarettes and was very fond of The Kinks.  The cigarettes were fine.  Over the period of twelve months The Kinks had grown on me.  Beer would forever be disgusting swill, no matter how many times I tried it.

After twelve months I decided that it was time to make contact, so I waited outside Johns building, sitting on the planter box next to the front door and waited for John to exit.  It was Friday night.  I had planned it so I wouldn’t have to wait long.  

“Evening” he said as he made to move past me.

“Mind if bum a smoke” I asked, stopping him in his tracks.  “Just that my friend is late picking me up and it’s bloody cold out.”

John turned to look at me, taking in details slowly, before giving a curt nod and fishing the crumpled packet out of his back pocket.  

“Here” he said holding the pack to me and with a practiced ease, I slid one out and held it to my lips.  The sound of a match striking sounded out in the quiet evening and I bent my head towards the flame, touching the tip of the smoke to the match.

“Cheers” I said after the first inhale.  “Any little bit helps.”

“Any time” John responded and then turned and walked away, sliding the cigarette packet back into his pocket, whistling _Long Tall Shorty_.  I turned and walked back to Baker Street, thumbing the small vial I had in my pocket, waiting to draw the liquid it contained up into the syringe, that I kept in a box under my couch, only to push it back out into my veins.

~o~

This went on for a while.  I would pop in and out of Johns life in the most random places, cafe’s, pubs, the shopping centre, at a few events he was photographing, parties, the laundromat, and even once in the A&E at the hospital.  Each time we exchanged a few brief words and then I would go home and get high, because talking to John and then walking away was too painful, but I couldn’t trust myself not to tell John how I felt, so therefore I could only allow myself small doses of the man.

 Each time, I acted surprised to meet him and each time he believed me.  It didn’t happen very often, just once every couple of weeks.  After our fifth meeting he introduced himself.  I didn’t introduce myself until our sixth meeting.

It was after three and a half years of these ‘ _impromptu’_ meetings that things changed.  Not including that very first night, I had not-so-accidentally bumped into John 87 times.  Three and a half years later, John _bumped_ into me.  

I had just come back from a meeting with John and as was the habit I had shot up.  Only this time I may have made the solution too strong.  I knew what was happening as soon as it started.  The shortness of breath, the cramps, the nausea.  I had overdosed.  The spasming and the vomiting came next and I just had to ride it out.  Just like the other six times I had done this.  I was going to hate myself in the morning.  At least Mr and Mrs Hudson were gone, something about the weather being better in Florida, (I still marvelled at Mrs Hudson’s existence once again.  By all rights, she shouldn’t be here.  Not again, at any rate.  She had passed away over 60 years ago, widowed and childless, two years before I had retired to the country, yet, 68 years later, there she was again, this time with a shifty husband in tow.  Apparently, somewhere, she had another half roaming around, waiting to find her.  Obviously, not Mr Hudson, whom she kept marrying.), and Mycroft had visited just yesterday, so I wouldn’t be expecting him at all.  It was always good not to have an audience when this happened. It was quite messy and very undignified, plus, there would be no one fussing over me while I was trying to suffer the worlds worst hangover.  And that was if I was lucky enough to not actually die.  If that happened...again, the effects would be tenfold.  That was my last thought as I passed out on the living room floor. 

When I came to, I fully expected to find myself where I had fallen, but I wasn’t.  I was on the other side of the living room, next to the fireplace, which was somehow burning, and I had a pillow under my head and a blanket wrapped around my body, all helping to ward off the shivers that were currently pulling at my muscles.

Apparently that overdose hadn’t been fatal.  There was always something to look forward to, I supposed.

I rolled away from the where I was facing the fire and groaned as I slowly fell onto my back.  My muscles ached, my head pounded and I felt like I could empty the contents of my stomach, if I had had anything in it left to empty.  Plus, I didn’t really feel like facing Lestrade at that moment, for that was surely who had found me.  

Mrs Hudson would have called for an ambulance and my brother would have left me lying in my own vomit until I awoke.

“Oh, good, you’re awake” came a most unexpected voice from the kitchen. “I was worried I should have called for a medic straight away.”

I lifted my head, as much as I was able and looked to see John coming towards me with a glass of water.  

“Here” he offered, kneeling down next to me.  Slowly I sat up and took the proffered glass, wincing at the way my clothes had dried and stuck to my skin, the smell of vomit wafting up from where the blanket had gaped open.

Slowly I drank the water down.  John sat by in silence.

“Is this a regular habit of yours?” he asked once I finished the drink, taking the cup from my hands.

“Cocaine, yes.  Overdosing, no” I replied and grimaced at the way my throat scratched as I spoke.  “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t so I could make sure you didn’t die from an overdose, but I’m all up for a bit of improvisation” he supplied.  ‘You’re welcome, by the way.”

I gave him a small grunt of possible thanks.  “I would have been fine” I muttered as I laid back down and re-wrapped the blankets around my shoulders.

“You may want to shower.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

There was silence for a few long seconds and finally John got up and made himself comfortable in his chair.  I smiled at that.  It seemed John was going to be fond of that chair, no matter what.  It would always be Johns chair.  

“You left your scarf in the cafe’” he informed me.  “I followed you back.  I tried calling out several times, but you didn’t hear me and trying to keep up with you is like trying to keep up with a gazelle.  I almost lost you twice.”

I gave a half a shrug.  Even though this John had legs as long as mine, he was still no match at keeping up with me on the busy footpaths of London.  This one wasn’t as suited for leg work as what his previous predecessors were, but that was fine with me.

“When I reached your flat I tried knocking, but no one answered.  I went for a coffee and a bite to eat in the shop a block over and when I came back this way your light was still on, so I tried again.  When I didn’t get another answer, I worried, so - I hope you don’t mind, but I picked the lock and came up.  Sort of glad I did.  You were a mess.”

Well, that was a surprise.  John Watson, my John Watson, knew how to pick locks.  That could be a skill that would be well worth learning.  You never knew when it could come in handy. 

“Not at all” I mumbled and then rolled back towards the fire.

“I tell you what” John said, far to cheerily for the way my head was feeling, giving my foot a nudge with his.  “You go shower and I’ll cook up some soup.  I’m sure I saw a can in there when I was looking for your glasses, and is that a real hand you have in the fridge?”

“Please say you didn’t touch the hand” I grumbled, ignoring the offer of food.

“Yeah, no…wasn’t going to touch that thing if someone had paid me.  Is it supposed to be green?”

And that was how John situated himself, quite comfortable I might add, into my life once more, despite me telling myself that I was going to keep my distance.  Apparently, just like the cocaine, John was too hard to deny.  

Three months later he had taken the room upstairs, right where he belonged.  I was happy, John was happy and all was well.  Until it wasn’t.

~o~

“I will not have my son, shacked up with another man.  You will move back into your apartment at once.”  The deep booming voice carried down the stairs perfectly, making every single syllable perfectly clear.  “People are already talking, look at what it is doing to your mother.”

The words that John responded with were only just audible from where I had stopped, one foot on the bottom stair.  “There is nothing untoward going on” John explained, exasperated.  This was quite possible not the first time they had had this particular conversation.  “Sherlock has a room on this floor, I have a room upstairs and at night, we both head to our respective beds alone.  And why should it bother us what other people say.  Other people are idiots.” I smiled at that.  Four months of being a regular in my life and he was already sounding like me.  “So no, Father, I will not be moving back to my flat.  This is a much more financially viable set up.”  My smile dropped.  I often forgot that that was why John asked to move in with me.  To save much needed funds.  He wasn’t actually here because he truely wanted to be.  

With a sigh I continued my trek up the stairs.  I had never met Mr and Mrs Watson, but from what John had told me they were very interfering and quite stubborn.  This conversation cold go on for hours, if it hadn’t already, and damned if I was going to do the polite thing and wait at the bottom of the stairs for them to continue.  

“Don’t you say no to me boy.  You will move out of this house, and you will do it without another word, am I clear!”

“Perfectly, Mr Watson” I drawled as I unwound my scarf from my neck and hung it up.  “But that still doesn’t mean that your son is going to move out, if he so wishes to continue living here.  He is most certainly welcome.  You on the other hand, are not.  Goodbye.”  And with that my coat joined my scarf on the hook.

A splutter of incredulity was the response from Mr Watson and a shocked gasp of someone who had just uncovered a grand scandal was what came from Mrs Watson.

“And who do you think you are” Mr Watson bellowed, finally finding his voice.  

“Sherlock Holmes, owner of this apparent sordid sin house that you standing in, now, lest you get a reputation from being in here too long, I suggest you scuttle out.  Quick, quick” and I followed the command out with a sharp _clap, clap_ of my hands.

Mr Watson was a brilliant shade of red by now and realising that nothing he could say would ruffle me at all, he turned back to his son.  “Don’t think I won’t cut you out of my will, or out of our life.  I will not have filth tarnish the name of Watson.”

John just shrugged.  “Go ahead.  I don’t particularly fancy myself being tarnished with the same brush as a bunch of narrow-minded, ignorant bigots.”

At this, Mrs Watson started wailing, over exaggerated grief evident in every cry that left her mouth.

“You will regret this, John.  Don’t for a second, think you won’t.”

John stood motionless, expressionless, making no attempt to sooth his mother or appease his father.  After a few seconds of staring each other down, Mr Watson got the point and stormed out of the flat, pulling his wife with him.

He slammed the door so hard that the picture I had on the wall, of a lady sitting at her dresser, fell to the floor and shattered.  I let out a sigh.  I was thinking of replacing it anyway.

Less than thirty seconds later the downstairs door also slammed shut.  

“So sorry about that” John said, finally breaking the silence.  

I just shrugged.  “I’ve had worse” I told him and made my way into the kitchen where I had several different hair samples coated in varying amounts of Brylcreem.

“I don’t actually, you know, what my father said.  It’s just random gossip, you know how it is, people talk.”

“Hmm, yes” I agreed half heartedly, not particularly wanting to have yet another talk about how John Watson is not, you know, _that way._ Once in a life time was enough, thank you very much.  “People tend to do little else.”

John gave a small huff of a laugh and stood, somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, watching his foot scuff back and forth over the linoleum. 

“I mean, I know it’s a thing now, and you can’t get sent to jail, but, you don’t have to worry or anything, because, well, I’m not…”

I couldn’t stand anymore.  I stood up from the table, where I had sat to study my work, and walked out of the kitchen and to my bedroom, shutting the door on Johns next words.  

That night I fell asleep after a rather disappointing high.

On the upside, the Watsons never came back to visit.

~o~

For six months we didn’t speak about that incident, or the aborted conversation.  Things carried on as usual.  John accompanied me on cases, and took photos for the newspapers and for private clients.  He did seem different though.  And not in a bad way.

He had stopped going out Friday nights to play poker, instead choosing to stay home and read or watch something on the television.  He was a fan of a ridiculous show about a snake called _Monty, something or other_ and a completely unrealistic show about a doctor who lived in a police call box for some reason or other.  I honestly couldn’t be bothered finding out why.  It was stupid to get so invested in such things.  Something so idiotic would only last another season or two before something as stupidly inane took its place.  

He was also a lot more tactile.  Nothing that a normal man, not one so in love with John, would find uncomfortable, but more than what he usually displayed.  Small things, like sitting next to me on the couch or touching my shoulder if we had shared something amusing.  His fingers tended to brush against mine, more often when he passed me objects.  It is nothing that anyone else, save for Mycroft, would pick up on, but it all stood out like a flashing light to me.  

Then there was the praise.  The praise, which had flowed so freely from my other Johns, was not as forth coming from this John, at least, not until then.  After the incident with the awkward conversation, John had become very extolling, throwing out _stunning_  and  _wonderful_  any opportunity he could.  Once upon a time I would have tried harder to impress John, but I couldn’t quite believe that this John would eventually feel for me what I felt for him.  I couldn’t let myself believe that because I couldn’t bare it if I drove John away again, so I started to withdraw.  I started staying away, sometimes for nights at a time.  The drug use, which had become a last resort to the pain and frustration, since John had found me, overdosed on the living room floor, suddenly became a lot more frequent.  

It was too dangerous to get my hopes up, so for the next few months I saw John as much as the case work needed us to be together.  Then one day, when I thought he had gone out for the morning, John Watson surprised me one more time.  

I staggered out of my bedroom, wrapped only in a sheet, yawning as I stretched as well as I could in the confines of my shroud.  I shuffled, still half asleep, into the kitchen hoping that there was milk in the fridge.  There was.  It was just as I was filling up the kettle that I heard a noise in the living room.  I stopped what I was doing and turned my head to see John, standing just in the doorway between the two rooms.  There was an odd sort of smile on his face.  

“Morning” he said.

“Morning” I replied.

“I’m heading out for the day.  I have a couple of shoots.  I won’t be home till late.”

“‘ts fine” I replied watching as he shuffled the camera bag on his shoulder.  He took a few steps into the kitchen.  

“Is there…is everything okay?” he asked.

I wanted to scream at him, tell him that, No! Nothing was okay, because he was still here and he still didn’t feel for me, what I felt for him.  But I didn’t scream.  I couldn’t.  It wasn’t his fault that I was not loveable and that he was not gay. 

“It’s just that, you’ve been a bit distant lately, ever since my parents were here, and I thought that maybe, I might have offended you.  At the time it didn’t occur to me that there might be a reason for offence, but if there is, if you know, you are in fact…well, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry and that it’s all fine.”

I opened my mouth to deliver some scathing retort, but when my mouth opened nothing came out.  I had nothing to say.  There was nothing to say.  Whether or not I was a homosexual would not sway his opinion in the slightest on how he felt for me.  It wasn’t going to suddenly make him fall in love with me and while I had been avoiding him, I didn’t actually want to drive him away, so I let any scathing remarks drop away and just shrugged.

“It’s fine” I told him and then turned to finish preparing my cup of tea.  When I turned back around, John was closer.  So close that it would only take a step and a half to be right up against him.  

“Is it?” He asked, looking me straight in the eye.  The question, as simple as it was, was asking so much more and all I could do was nod.  A small smile spread across his Johns lips and then he took that step, closing the difference between us.  “Good” he whispered and leant forward and placed his lips on mine.  The kiss was simple.  It was just a press of lips against lips, a slight parting of his and I could feel his breath against mine.  When he pulled back he was still smiling.  “Good” he repeated and then turned and left the flat, while I stood there, stunned and not quite sure what to do.  

John Watson had kissed me.  On the lips, right here in the kitchen and then said _good_.  I’m not sure how long I stood, blinking repeatedly while I catalogued the feeling and the sounds and the taste of John as he kissed me for the first time.  It had been small, and chaste, but it had been wonderful and I wanted to remember every micro-second of it.  But as life goes, my day dreaming was interrupted by Lestrade coming up the stairs.  

“Sherlock” he called, barging into the flat.  ‘I’ve got a case…”  He must have taken one look at me and decided that something was very wrong.  “You all right?” he asked.  

I blinked a few more times and then looked at the man.  “John kissed me” I said, dumbly.  

It took a few seconds but as realisation dawned on the DI, a smug smile spread across his lips.  “Did he now?”

“Hmmm.”  Lestrade grinned even more, but then it dropped.  

“Well, I hate to interrupt this momentous occasion, but I have a triple homicide.  Two of your homeless and a musician from a local jazz band.”

I was snapped out of daze instantly and focused on what Lestrade was saying.  “Cause of death?”  

“Gun shot wounds” he supplied.

I gave a curt nod.  “Leave me the address.  I’ll dress and meet you there.”

Lestrade gave a nod of his own and took a note from his pocket, already anticipating that I would not travel with him.  “I’ll try and stop anyone from ruining the scene until you get there” he stated, also anticipating that I would tell him to do so.

I got dressed and left a note for John on the table, telling him to join us when he could.  Had I known how it would end, I wouldn’t have left a note at all.

~o~

“Hold on, John.  There is an ambulance on the way.  Just hold on” I pleaded, pushing on the wound in Johns stomach, trying to stem the alarming flow of blood.  

There was a gurgled response, but nothing intelligible as John tried to answer.

Not two feet from where I knelt, trying desperately to will John not to die, another man laid dead with a gun shot wound to the head.  He was of no consequence.  

Two days ago, Lestrade had come to me with the case.  A triple homicide.  As soon as I had seen the crime scene I knew who was involved.  Kevin Bolsho.  I knew first hand that he ran cocaine and heroin in central London.  It was his turf and someone had tried to cut in.  He had killed three of the new dealer's buyers as a warning.  Now he too was dead because Lestrade had shot him between the eyes after Bolsho had aimed his gun at me.  The only reason that I had been distracted was because he was trying to save Johns life.  John, who had been shot in what we had thought was an empty warehouse.  Bolsho had been unexpected, taking us both by surprise and John had paid the price.  He had paid the price because Bolsho wanted to send a message to me.  I was _his_ customer, and no one was going to stop that.  But they had, and then they had left to call for help and surely it shouldn’t be taking this long.

“Lestrade” I called out when Johns eyes closed and didn’t open again. “Where is the bloody ambulance?”  

“It’s coming” I heard Lestrade reply from across the warehouse, out of breath as he had just run in from the car after radioing for help.  “How’s he holding up?”

I ignored Lestrades question, instead tapping John on the cheek.  “Come on, John.  Wake up” I pleaded, but there was no response, other than his very shallow breathing.  

Finally the ambulance arrived and John was placed on a stretcher and rushed into the back of the van while the medics worked frantically on him.  It was physically painful to watch the doors on the ambulance close and then watch as the vehicle drove away.  The further it got away, the more it hurt.  Lestrade and I followed in the police car.

By the time I got to the hospital, John Watson was dead.

~o~

It was a month before I could bring myself to go into Johns room to pack his things away.  But it had to be done.  I could no longer live in the flat, knowing that all of John’s belongings were up there, as if waiting for him to come back.  I couldn’t have another constant reminder that I had lost him.  _Again._   So up the stairs I went, to his room and slowly pushed open the door.  Unlike the last time, it wasn’t new territory for me.  This John had invited me into his domain plenty of times.  He didn’t have such a nonsensical notion of personal space.   Unlike last John, this John brought life to the room.  His personality was splashed over all every surface.  On the wall, in between the wardrobe and the window was an anti-war poster; two red forearms rising up, the fists gripping each other.  Underneath it said ‘ _Come together in peace_.’  On top of the dresser was the ridiculous lava lamp his parents had bought for him a few christmases ago.  Books on poetry and philosophy made a neat stack on his bedside table.  Photographs, taken by him littered the walls; the London skyline, the Thames, Vauxhall arches, members of Sherlocks homeless network.  His Union Jack pillow sat at the foot of his unmade bed and his collection of Kinks records sat neatly next to the record player.  The plant Mrs Hudson had given him as a house warming present had died due to John not being there to tend to it any more.  

I started with Johns clothes, pulling them out and pushing them into bin liners, tying them off and throwing them in the corner of the room.  Next was the books and Johns collection of pornography that was under the bed.  A week before he had been killed I would have been shocked to find a handful of postcards picturing naked men strewn throughout the magazines full of naked women, but not now.  Before John had left this world he had shared one last thing with me.  That was the hope that he could possibly love me back this time.  I viciously jammed the magazines in the box with the books.  I was feeling vindictive enough to drop the entire lot off at the church book drive.  Let them find the dirty sinful pictures that John kept under his bed.  Maybe they could justify it as being the reason he was killed.  Again. 

The records and the small bits and bobs went into another box.  Later on I would get Mycroft to organise someone to come and collect the lot.  It wasn’t like his parents were interested in his belongings.  They had made that perfectly clear at the funeral.  

It was as I was pulling the remainder of Johns belongings from under the bed that I came across a wooden box, much like the one I kept my drug paraphernalia in.  I almost threw it in the box with the rest of Johns things but, being a man of curious nature, I couldn’t help but open the box.  

Inside was not the contents I was expecting.  Inside was quite a sizeable stack of photos, all of me.  The top most ones were recent.  A few of them I remembered John taking.  They were the ones where I was scowling at the camera.  The others I had either been in my mind palace or asleep or otherwise so preoccupied that I didn’t notice John snapping away with his camera.  They were all of our time together, here, at 221B Baker Street, or the ridiculous adventures that happened in between.  There were some from private cases, some from the Yard’s cases and some of no cases.  The only thing they had in common was that they were all of me.  

Then I came across one that was before our time living together.  It took a few moments for me to try and place when he had taken it and then it dawned on me.  It was the last time I had overdosed.  John had cleaned me up, and placed me in front of the fire to warm up, wrapped in a blanket.  That is what the photo was of.  Only the top of my head was visible, my sleeping eyes poking over the edge of the blanket.  The next photos were even more surprising.  They were of me, in various locations, between the time I had first made contact with John and when he had moved into Baker Street.  Most of these were taken when I had orchestrated our meeting to take place while he was working, but there were a few that weren’t.  One was taken through the window of the laundromat.  He had been outside, while I had been inside, clearly not doing washing.  There was another of me hanging around a cafe’ that I would often bump into him at.  After that I was even more surprised that there were photos of me before we had even officially met.  All this time, I thought I had been discreet and stealthy, when in reality, it had been John who had been those things.  Not once did I realise that he knew I was following him and he had, once again, documented our journey together.  I placed the box on the bed, next to the Union Jack pillow.  It would later be stored away with Johns manuscripts and his journals, all stacked up on top of a small red and blue kite.

 


	6. Here We Go Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is back and this time Sherlock will do anything to keep him alive, even if it means he has to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a long one this time. Just a wrap up of series 1 & 2 to take us back to where the story started.

_I wish you well and so I take my leave,_

_I pray you know me when we meet again._

_\- William Shakespeare_

~~~~~~~~~~

**2010**

I heard the door open, two people walk in - one was the familiar tread of Mike Stamford, while the other was an unfamiliar, uneven gait, accompanied by the tap of a cane on every other step.  I bit back the retort to tell Stamford to bugger off.  He had already wasted half of my morning with what Molly called ‘f _riendly chatter.’_  

I threw a quick glare at the two of them.  Mike looked pleased with himself for some reason.  I couldn’t tell what the other person looked like because his head was turned away from me.

I looked back down at the solution in front of me and watched as it fizzed away.  Good.  I knew who killed the sister.  Now I just needed to let Lestrade know.

“Well, bit different from my day.”  I rolled my eyes.  Clearly a doctor, mid to late thirties, possibly older.  The slightest lilt to his native London accent also indicated that he had spent some time, recently, abroad, but had been back enough to lose 99% of the slight accent he would have picked up, therefore, of course it would have changed since ‘ _his time_ ’.  Funnily enough, the technology used in hospitals had evolved, quite a bit, in the past ten to fifteen years.

I could hear the two nattering on in the background as I frowned down at my phone.  No signal.  Again.  I really must look at getting a more reliable provider.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?  There’s no signal on mine” I asked knowing that Mike would say yes.  The man lives to please.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?”  I almost dropped the pipette I had in my hand. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

I made sure not to let my surprise show.  “I prefer to text.”

Mike made a show of patting down his pocket and then made the excuse that it was in his coat.  I went to call out his lie, stating that the outline of his phone could clearly be seen in jacket pocket but then the other man spoke.

“Er, here.  Use mine.”

That, too was unexpected.  “Oh, thank you” I replied uncertainly.  It was not every day that a stranger offered to help me.  Actually, it was not any day ever and as I moved towards the other man I threw a look at Mike, wondering why he was smiling that small smile and also wondering why he had decided to bring his odd colleague into work.

“This an old friend of mine, John Watson” Mike informed me and I almost stumbled, tripping over my own feet as Mike, unknowingly, grabbed my world and started spinning it around twice as fast as normal. Surely it was just a coincidence.  There were over a dozen John Watsons in London alone.  I knew, I had followed all of them at least once, but never before had I seen this man.  There was only one way to find out.  

I looked up at John who was looking down while he pulled his phone out of his pocket, but when he looked up, my entire world stopped spinning.  Even in the low lighting of the Lab there was no mistaking those eyes.  It was my John.  Again.  There he was, standing in front of me, in Barts Lab, holding his phone out to me.  Quickly blinking, trying to shake myself out of the dazed awe I was in, I quickly looked down at the phone in his hand and reached out for it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I asked, because it was all my brain was supplying; observations.  That was it.  It was not forming anything else, just the pure hard facts and if it wasn’t going to be asking that specific question then it was going to be me pulling John into an embrace and begging him never to leave me again.  I wouldn’t be able to take it.

We exchanged words, and for once I was actually thankful of Mollys presence, for it took away that antsy feeling that was starting to develop under my skin, like it was getting too small for my body.  I needed to leave, I had to get out, and I was almost there, swinging on my coat in that dramatic way that made Mycroft roll his eyes (I wonder if John would like this coat.  It was nicer than my last one, and he had commented on that one more than once).  

I mentioned a time to meet up and then reached for the door.

“Is that it?”  John asked and I stopped my movements, despite my anxiousness to leave.  This was too much.  John was here.  I had to leave before he refused to view my flat…our flat.

“Is that what?”  Was there meant to be more.  What had I done wrong?  

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

Oh, was that all.  I couldn’t see what the problem was.  He had moved in with me twice before after only just meeting me.  Even the third time, he hadn’t known me well.  Why should it be a problem now?

“Problem?” I asked.

An almost unnoticeable insufferable sigh left Johns mouth and I realised, straight away, that this John was not going to be as suffering as my other Johns.  This John had less tolerance for bullshit.  It might have something to do with the army training.  

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

I gave a studying glare at John.  Apparently he thought I should be worried that he may be an unsavoury character.  Fine, let us lay that worry to rest, shall we.

“ I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

Again, before John has a chance to say no, I made my way to the door, wrapping my scarf around my neck and left.  Quickly, I realised that John did in fact have no idea where he was meeting me, despite this being the fourth time he would co-habit the building.  I stepped back and stuck my head back into the lab.  “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.” For some unknown reason I winked at him and then stalked out, down the corridor and away from John.  

I needed to sort a lot of things out before John arrived back home tomorrow.  Like, maybe moving back in.  

I had vacated the premises twelve years ago, after the next lot of tenants who had taken over the Hudson’s flat while they were in Florida, had decided that they wanted to be friendly and kept coming up for a chat.  I could have found a way to drive them away, but it would have been the eighteenth tenants I had done so and after the last lot Mrs Hudson had written me and asked me to please stop making her life hard, it was already hard enough, and to please leave her tenants alone.  She couldn’t afford to have the flat sitting empty.  I had asked Mycroft to intervene, but he had decided that I should learn to get on with other people, so instead I had moved out and into a flat in Montague Street, where wealthy business people who didn’t give a rats arse about socialising with the strange man down the hall, resided and then I went to Florida to find out why Mrs Hudson was having such a hard time.  

By the time I had her husband sentenced to death, the woman had suffered over 30 years of domestic violence while her husband cheated and lied and ran a drug cartel.  It was a pleasure to see that the man was going to die.  Three years later Mrs Hudson returned to London, where she moved back into 221 A Baker Street, where she belonged, but unfortunately Flat B was leased out to the Chatterjee family, who were trying to save up to open a small cafe’ of their own.  Now that they had succeeded and moved all the way into the neighbouring apartment above their store, Flat B was once again vacant.  Mrs Hudson had only approached me two weeks ago to see if I was interested, offering her ridiculous low price, as she always did, and I had said no as Montague Street was still very private.  But it only had one bedroom.  I had to hurry and hope the woman hadn’t found tenants yet.

It was as I was in a cab, on the way to Baker Street that I realised that John probably wasn’t worried about me being worried about him, but was - more likely than not - worried about me being a bit, well, psychotic.  I brushed the worry aside.  He would find out sooner or later.  We were the perfect match for each other.

~o~

John.  My John.  My wonderful, beautiful John.  He had shown up to the flat, he had praised my brilliance, with more enthusiasm than any of my other Johns, he had joined me on the case and even maybe come-on to me at the restaurant.  And then he had killed a man.  For me.  Not much more than 24 hours after meeting me (again) and he had shot a man he perceived to be a threat and killed him.  Dead.  It would have been the most amazing night of my life, but for one thing.  

Moriarty.  

That name should never have been mentioned.  It wasn’t possible.  He had died in 1884, over one hundred years ago, yet apparently, here he was, somewhere in London, being a fan of Sherlock Holmes.  It could have been another Moriarty, maybe a coincidence that I had attracted two loonies with the same name, but that was a far stretch to leap and plus, the universe was rarely so lazy.  

~o~

My John was broken.  Far more broken than I had originally believed.  If I had thought I had fixed him, just by getting rid of his limp, then I had been mistaken.

John had gone to war, a proud and skilled man.  He had come back half that man, unable to practice his craft, suffering from depression and PTSD and broke.  He was fine when I kept him busy, but that wasn’t all the time.  Plus there was the case of money.  I could have given him some.  Lots.  I had it.  It sat in the bank and barely got used.  But John was still a proud man, and would not take money unless it was earned.  So, I knew without a doubt that I was going to take the case, even without reading through the details, when I was emailed for help by an insufferable arse I had gone to uni with. (That was an experience I wouldn’t be repeating three times.  Why I had thought further study in the twentieth century would have been illuminating, was beyond me.  The students were just as obnoxious as ever, and had no time at all for a re-entry student.  The lecturers did less, even though these days they got paid more, and despite there being such advances in the scientific world, the content was still so stilted.  It had almost been enough to drive me back to drugs, but since that last time, since John….well, I hadn’t touched them since and I wasn’t about to start again.)  

As predicted, John had followed.

~o~

Colleague.  That is all I was.  A colleague.  I had thought we were friends, but I guess I was wrong.  Well, if I had to start right down the bottom of the pile again, I would.  I had built our relationship up further before, I could do it once more.  

~o~

I hated the name Sarah.  It was such a … horrible name.  And I hated the way she touched Johns arm, and the way she leaned in to talk to him.  I hated the way she had come back to the flat after the circus, which wasn’t really a circus and I hated that John was paying more attention to _Sarah_ than he was to me.  

I hated the name Sarah.

~o~

God, I had nearly lost John, again.  If I hadn’t got to the tunnels when I had they both would have been killed and all over an ugly hair pin.  What was worse, was that afterwards John had taken Sarah home and spent the night at her place.  Nothing had happened between them, I could tell the second John had returned home, but it wasn’t the point.  I too had needed comforting.  I too had had a fright, and while it wasn’t my life I had been afraid of losing - because face it, that just wasn’t possible.  An inconvenience at them trying, but just not possible -  it had been so much more.  It had been Johns life that could have been taken.  Again.  And just after I had got him back.  

But come home he had.  And he had checked that I had slept.  I hadn’t, but I told him that I had.  And because he had come home and because he had not partaken in any form of intercourse and because he had almost gotten Sarah killed on their first date I had assumed that that would be the last of her.  

I wasn’t to be so lucky.

~o~

I wasn’t taking the dating well.  I pulled John away from her as much as possible, finding the most ridiculous reasons to interrupt their dates.  It always made me smile when he dropped her for me, which was every time, and from what I could gather she still hadn’t let him past second base.  If the visible signs after every outing with her mixed in with the amount of times I ruined their evenings or afternoons together weren’t enough of a sign, then the increased amount of wanking that John had been partaking in lately was a definite indication.  

Unfortunately, he insisted on carrying on trying to please the woman with hopes that they would move on from snogging and heavy petting on the couch.  This left me frustrated and angry and in a constant bad mood.  It became so bad that I took a case in Belarus, just to get away from it all.  When I got back it was to find that John was at Sarahs.  This just made me more feral.  So much that I lashed out at John pretty much as soon as he got home, insulting his intelligence.  Not surprisingly, this just drove him back to Sarah and I had planned to spend the evening sulking on the couch, but then someone decided to blow the building up across the road from our flat.

~o~

This was all wrong.  It wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  John was at Sarah’s, trying to get lucky again.  Not standing in the middle of a swimming centre, strapped to enough Semtex to blow up, not only this building, but also the neighbouring ones on either side. 

“Who are you?” I called out, looking around the pool for any indication of other people.

A door at the end of the pool opened and a very familiar voice rang out.  One I thought I would never hear again.

“I gave you my number.”  From the shadows stepped Professor James Moriarty  “I thought you might call.” 

Moriarty strolled closer and stopped next to John.  “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket …" 

I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out John’s gun, aiming it at a man I had thought, and by all means, should have been long dead.  

“…or are you just pleased to see me?” the mad man finished off. 

“Both” I answered, keeping my voice calm, refusing to let the fear show through, and I was scared, for two reasons.  One, I had never been blown up before.  Mycroft knew a man who had and had reported that it was an extremely painful and long process recovering from such an injury, and the second reason was that John wasn’t immortal.  Yet.  If that vest went off, he would die.  There was no two doubts about it.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!” The psychopath sang, and then his voice dropped into something almost cooing like  “Jim? Jim from the hospital?”

I studied the man.  He was different.  He was a bit older, and a lot thinner.  His beard and moustache had gone.  I hadn’t recognised him in the hospital because I didn’t care about him, plus the quietening and lowering of his voice, the use of hair gel and eyeliner, and the ridiculous tight clothes had also lent to the deception.  That and it had been over a hundred years since I had seen the man and believing him to be dead, I had not bothered to memorise his features.  It would be a mistake I would not make again.

We made small talk, as I tried to appraise the situation.  We flirted and while his grand scheme unravelled, I could not help but feel a little impressed at what he had built up.  Unfortunately, he had taken it out on my John, and that was just not acceptable.  

Apparently John had felt the same way about me, which sent a warm feeling flood through me.  It didn’t last long as John anchored himself to the man in front of me, threatening to take them both down if he didn’t let me leave.  

Idiot, as if I would have left without him.

But of course Moriarty had a back up plan and it took John, less that a heartbeat to back away once he realised my life was in immanent danger, once again.

“I take it your little pet doesn’t know about you then” Moriarty said gleefully as he straightened the wrinkles John had put in his suit, and the blood froze in my veins.  

Moriarty knew about forevers - obviously.  He knew about soulmates.  He knew I was one.

“I’ll take that as confirmation” the man all but crowed.  Thankfully, he changed the subject.

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?” he asked casually.

I don’t answer.  There is only one thing he could do to me and I wasn’t having that conversation in front of John, not while he didn’t know the truth, and he couldn’t know the truth.  Not yet, anyway.  

“If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn the heart out of you” Moriarty supplied in my silence, snarling the last sentence.

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.   

Moriarty just smirked before his gaze raked over to John.  “But we both know that’s not quite true.”

I had nothing to say.  Too much had been said already.  I couldn’t force myself onto John.  That had never worked in the past.  He had to come to the realisation on his own and Moriarty’s actions tonight may possibly have caused some irreversible damage already.

“Well, I’d better be off” Moriarty announced as if they were not currently in the middle of a standoff.  “So nice to have a proper chat.  Ciao, Sherlock Holmes” he called as he walked away.

“Catch ... you ... later” I answered, somewhat cautiously as Jim walked through the doors he had entered through.

“No you won’t!” comes the sing song voice of  a mad man before the doors swung shut one final time.  

I got barely a minute to assess if John was fine before the peace shattered once again and my panic increased once more when I saw the little red dot dance on Johns chest, and of course the idiot was more annoyed than scared.  More sniper lights appeared, dozens of them covering both John and myself.

It was then that Moriarty strolled back into the room with more flair and dramatics than even I could have pulled off.  “You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you but ... everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!”

I looked down to John, searching his eyes, trying to convey to him what I was going to do and to prepare to run, hoping he would know to go for the water.  He nodded, giving me permission so with that I turned back to Moriarty.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours” I replied, raising my pistol up at James, and then lowering it down to the vest I had not along ago ripped off of Johns body. All three of us stared down at the vest and I couldn’t understand why John wasn’t preparing to run.  Then it dawned on me.  He was never going to run.  He had resigned himself to the fact that we were going to both die, there at the pool, right then, together.  Of all the idiotic things he had done that night, that one took the cake.  How was I going to pull the trigger now that I knew he was definitely going to die?  I held the gun, trained on the vest, trying to run through all the ways I could save him once I pulled the trigger, assuming the snipers didn’t pull their trigger also.  I don’t know how long had passed.  It felt like it could have been ten seconds or two years, but just as I was about to lower the gun, unable to be the death of John Watson once more, and offer anything to the devil himself,  music welled up in the room, the sound of the BeeGees, echoing off of the cement walls.

I frowned over at John, who just shrugged and looked back up at Moriarty who hit the button on his phone, plunging the room into silence again.  In less than a minute he was telling me he would reschedule our meeting and once again he left taking his snipers with him.  

I looked to John, furious as he looked to me, also furious.  

“Why didn’t you get ready to run” I shouted at the same time he shouted, “You bloody hesitated.”

There was silence for a bit then I yelled, “Of course I bloody hesitated, I didn’t actually want to kill us all” at the same time he yelled “What do you mean, get ready to run, where in the hell was I going to run to?”

“The pool, John.  You may have had a chance, had you jumped into the pool!” I cried waving my arms frantically, not knowing what else to do with all this pent up energy.  John stalked over to me and with quick, deft movements, disarmed me, flicking the safety on on the gun and placing it in the pocket of his jacket.

“Really, Sherlock?  The Pool?”

“Yes, John.  _The pool!”_

“Sherlock” John was clearly very irate then.  He was using his careful voice.  “That vest” and he waved down at the vest he had been wearing not so long ago, now four metres away on the floor of the pool, “has enough explosives on it to blow up an entire block.  Had I jumped into the pool, the ceiling, which would not have been saved from the explosion, especially since the walls that are holding it up would have been blown to bloody smithereens, would have fallen into the pool and pinned me to the bottom, because iron beams, Sherlock, do not bloody float!”

He was really yelling by the end of his rant, and once he had finished his breath was coming out in little pants and his fists were clenched by his sides, quite possibly to stop himself from trying to shake some sense into me because, he did have quite a valid point.

We stood glaring at each other for a few brief seconds and then I couldn’t take anymore.  We were alive and the whole situation, like our entire lives together, was completely ridiculous.  I grinned, and then I started chuckling.  It took less than two seconds for Johns giggle to join my laughter and we kept laughing until the intense adrenalin fled our system.

“Lets go home” John insisted.

“Yes, lets” I agreed and just like that, after everything that had transpired that evening, everything had gone back to normal.

~o~

I tried not to blush as John leaned back to look at my sheet wrapped back and then leant forward, his gaze raking over my form, huddled in my dove grey bedding.   For a man, claiming not to be gay, he was having a rather long look.

“Are you wearing any pants?” he asked curiously.

“No” I answered simply.  

“Okay” John replied.

The silence lasted only as long as we could not look at each other, and then we both dissolved into laughter.  I had never had as much fun with my other Johns, as I had with this one and then of course Mycroft walked in and the good mood was instantly put on halt with his matter of national importance.

“Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work” I explained and I turned to his colleague, Harry.  “Good morning” I farewelled him and then turned and walk away.  I didn’t get far before my brother stepped on the corner of the sheet, unexpectedly, and I almost lost the entire thing, only just catching it in time to stop me from flashing my arse in the middle of Buckingham Palace.  I was certain John was having a good look, once again.

“This is a matter of national importance. Grow up” My brother said, trying to sound authoritative. 

“Get off my sheet!” I replied through clenched teeth, trying to tug my sheet free.  It held fast.

“Or what?” was Mycrofts, almost childish response.  God, this brought back memories.

“Or I’ll just walk away” I threatened, and I would, bare arse be damned.  

“I’ll let you” Mycroft said calling my maybe bluff.

I was about to let go of the sheet and stride away when John spoke up.  “Boys, please. Not here.”

“Who. Is. My. Client?” I ask again, frustration lacing each word.  I absolutely hated doing Jobs for Mycroft.  I wasn’t here purely for him to use when required.  If he wanted me to actually do his work, the lazy arse, then he could be more forthcoming with the bloody details.

Mycroft let out a pained, yet hushed sigh.  “Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God’s sake ...put your clothes on!” he hissed.

~o~

Irene Adler seemed quite the woman.  Granted, she provided sex for a living, but she certainly knew how to play the upper hand.  I was almost tempted to take the case until Mycroft uttered those four words.

“How would you know?”

I could have killed him right then and there.  The utter bastard.  Just because he and Lestrade were in the middle of a rather epic argument ( Two nights ago I had to hear all about it when Lestrade had come over and shared a bottle of scotch with John, detailing all the ways Mycroft was an arse.  And then all the ways Mycroft had a nice arse.  I had then had to call an end to it all when Lestrade started going on about centuries of co-habiting together… he never got any further and John, half a sheet to the wind himself, had just put it down to Lestrade being quite inebriated), didn’t mean he could humiliate me in front of John.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had outplayed everyone by not making any demands, I would have walked away, but then Mycroft had reluctantly let that one final fact slip and I was, as he knew I would be, hooked.  It still didn’t stop me from stealing the ash tray for John.

~o~

It was hard not smiling.  John was jealous.  Horribly jealous.  And of The Woman.  Not once have I ever shown any indication that I was interested in women.  In fact, I had made it abundantly clear that they were not my area when we first met this time round.  I had actually said, “ _No, not really my area._ ”  I had then assumed that we had established that it was men that were my area.  Well, one man, but he didn’t know that just yet.  Mind you, to be fair, if it had been intelligence, wit and a mental acuity that I had wanted in a partner he would have a perfect reason to be worried.  Thankfully, I had enough of those traits myself.  I didn’t need any more. I went to open my mouth, to tell him that he had nothing to worry about but then I thought better of it.  How many times had I watched John date woman after woman, (thankfully he had decided that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Sarah.  They were just friends now) and I had made it perfectly clear, on every occasion possible, that I did not approve.  Did he stop?  No, he didn’t.  Maybe now it was time for him to wear the other shoe, as it were.    

“John Hamish Watson, just if you were looking for baby names.” 

In order to not smile at how obviously jealous the man was, I turned my attention back to Irene.

~o~

I had been played.  Well and truely played and all because I was trying to impress John, while at the same time, make him jealous.  

“Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love” Irene replied flippantly, folding up the contract that would bring a nation to it’s knees and slid it into her purse.  

Love.  _Love_.  L.  O.  V.  E.  **Love**.

That one words set my mind racing.  Jim Moriarty sent his _love_.  He also sent Irene.  Irene could have damaged me, and by extension, Mycroft,  in so many different ways, actually, she didn’t even need me.  She could have gotten that information easily, from a lot of other men and women, with a lot less hassle, yet she had pursued me.  She had flirted with me.  She had gone out of her way to make John jealous, which at the time had been amusing.  Now it was just irritating.  Now it just made her annoying, because now I knew how to get into her phone.

“Nicely played” I heard my brother say to the Woman, and it would have been, had it not been for sentiment.  

“No” I said and both turned to look at me and I made my way over to them and worked in an opportunity to pluck the phone from her fingers.

“I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me” and it hurt, because it was true.  He had no idea how wrong he was, but I refused to tell him before he told me.  Never again.  “But the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.

“When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this, this is far more intimate. “

I looked down at the phone in my hands and pulled up the locked screen.

“This is your heart ... “ I said, punching in the first digit of the code.  _S_

“... and you should never let it rule your head.” I could attest to that.  I could tell her, first hand of what hurt it brings.  “You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for ... “ I hit the second digit as I saw panic start to well in Irene’s eyes.  _H_

“But you just couldn’t resist it, could you?  I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ... “ No, I didn’t assume.  I knew.  I punched in the third character.  _E_

“Thank you for the final proof” I said, not that I needed it, as I punched in the final digit.  _R_

The screen read I Am SHER Locked and then sprung to life.  I pulled the contract out of Irene’s purse and handed it back to my brother as I told them both that I didn’t care what happened to her.  Jail would have been kinder.  It was a shame though.  I thought she had been interesting.  

Once she was hauled off by guards to await her fate, my brother closed the doors.

“That was quite a speech, you gave there” he said quietly.

“You may want to keep her alive.  She may prove quite knowledgable” I said, hopefully able to avoid another brotherly heart to heart.

“He will come round, Sherlock.  Just give him time.”

“Have you and Gavin gotten over your little spat, yet?” I asked.  I had been over three months and there had been too much morose Lestrade at my flat.  At least he hadn’t gotten drunk again.

“Don’t change the subject” Mycroft warned.  “All I am asking is that you don’t lose hope.”

“I can’t, Mycroft.  I have tried many times to lose it, but every time I find him it wells back up, but thank you very much for reminding me of just how useless _hope_ is” I snarled and stood up.

“Please either make up with Gavin or tell him to stop bringing his sombre mood to my house.  It ruins my evenings.”  With that I left the room and then the building. 

I had John at home, whom I had to reassure was safe from losing me to Irene, and of whom I had a date on the couch with while we watched crap telly (apparently the one about the police box was still going…who knew) and ate left over Chinese food.  If that was as good as it was going to get, then I was going to take it.

~o~

We were sharing a room.  John and I.  Together.  In a room.  Sleeping.  Together.  Okay, granted we were in seperate beds, but I would still be in the same room as a sleeping John Watson.  That hasn’t happened in, well, forever.  Sure, there had been times when John had dozed on the train, or in a carriage or in a cab, and there was that one time when he a fallen into a drunken slumber in his chair, and of course, those times when he was dying, but never had I witnessed John, relaxed and sober and asleep in a bed.  I know it wasn’t something to be so intrigued about, but there was just so much of John Watson that that I hadn’t had the chance to learn from our standard day to day interaction and to be able to watch him sleep, without fear of him waking up in the middle of the night and chucking something hard at my head, would give me an opportunity to fill in some of the gaps in my knowledge of John Hamish Watson. It was a shame that I would be unable to compare it to my other sleeping Johns.

~o~

“I don’t have friends” I called out to Johns retreating back.  He stopped and turned his head around to sort of face me.  I’d take what I could get.  “I’ve just got one.”  I started to think that John was going to continue walking away but after a few seconds of contemplating my words he gave a short nod and muttered “Right.”  He did walk away again, but his posture wasn’t as ram-rod military as it had been a few moments before and his stride wasn’t as determined to get away with me.  I took a few seconds to appreciate that this was my John, not everyone else.  I needed to be nicer or he would leave me.  Again.  And this time of his own volition.  I didn’t ponder any more on those thoughts as suddenly John’s unintended brilliance shone through, once more.

“John? John!” I called, chasing after him.  “You are amazing! You are fantastic!”

~o~

Well, nicer would have to wait for later.  Right then I needed John, but I couldn’t have John knowing that he was needed, which was why he was running around in a blind panic in the lab while I played growling noises over the intercom.  It only confirmed two theories.  The first one was mine, and was that we had been drugged.  The second was Johns theory (which wasn’t really a theory, so much as solidifying a fact) and that was that that I, Sherlock Holmes, was a right and utter twat, but that was fine, because John would never know.

~o~

John found out.  He used that brain of his and actually figured it out that I was the one who had locked him in the lab.  He was furious.  He had also figured out that I was incorrect in believing the sugar was the source of the drugging.  This somewhat tapered down his fury.

“So you got it wrong.”  Smug but angry.  

“No” I replied.  I got it a bit right.

“Mmm. You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar. You got it wrong.”  He wasn’t going to back down. 

“A bit” I admitted somewhat airily.  “It won’t happen again.” 

It wouldn’t be long before I knew just how wrong that statement was.”

~o~

This was it.  The great fall of Sherlock Holmes.  The lies, the deception.  The news article hadn’t even come out before people started to believe it, started doubting me but it had been necessary to plant that seed of doubt.  Mycroft would have had it all cleared up by the end of the week except things had gone wrong.  Impossibly wrong.  

I stood, staring at the corpse of Jim Moriarty, waiting for him to take a breath, waiting for the blood to stop streaming out of the back of his head.  Waiting for any sign that his body was knitting itself back together again, but nothing was happening.  He was dead, and somehow, for good.  This couldn’t be happening.  It was just not possible.  He was immortal.  He wasn’t able to stay to dead, despite his theories.  

I knew that Jim had wanted to ruin me.  I hadn’t played his game by his rules.  I was in his way.  So was Mycroft.  There was only one way to solve that problem and that was by getting me out of the way.  I would have been lying if I had said I wasn’t just a bit interested in finding out what it was he thought he could do to me, but not before I sent John away.  I would not let John get caught in the crossfire again.  No game was worth that.

So, with my phone in my pocket, so Mycroft could hear every word said between the two of us, I made my way to the roof of Barts and sought out the devil himself.

“You know, I didn’t realise that you were like me” Jim admitted, not looking at me once, as he scuffed his toe agains the grimy concrete under his foot.  “Not until 1964.”  At this he did look up at me.  “After you so rudely pulled me over the falls I travelled through Asia and Europe, building up an empire, a network.  It wasn’t until I finally returned back to London that I found you again, a lowly little drug addict and then later I realised that you had a little pet, just like before, and imagine my surprise when I found out his name was John Watson.  So, you had found your mate, but he hadn’t found his.  That was obvious by the sad doe eyes you directed his way whenever he wasn’t looking.”

Jim put his hands in his coat pockets and turned to look out over the roofs of the other buildings, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  “God, it was fun, putting that hit on his life. “

The blood froze in my veins.  Kevin Bolsho, the man who had shot John, it hadn’t just been a panicked attack on his pursuers.   

“I told him” Jim continued as if my blood hadn’t gone from frozen to boiling in a matter of seconds.  “Don’t kill the tall dark one, go for the ginger.  If he did that, I wouldn’t kill his kid.  He gave it a marvellous shot, excuse the pun.”

I lurched forward, spinning him around and hanging him over the edge of the building by the lapels of his jacket.  “You’re insane” I snarled, because no-one, who had another half would go out of their way to wrench apart two others.  Those who knew that pain, would not inflict it on another.  It was inhumane.

“You’re just getting that now?”  His words just made me push him back even further and the man just laughed.

“Do it, and you’ll lose John forever.”

“Impossible” I snarled, my fingers tightening on his jacket.  Of course it was impossible.  

“Is it, though?” Jim asked and despite the sarcasm and the over the top joviality, there was something in his eyes.  Something that told me he was telling the truth.  With another snarl, I let go of his jacket and stepped back as he struggled to right himself so he wouldn’t actually tip over the edge of the building.

With a disapproved frown the man - the monster, because anyone who could do what he claimed to be able to do wasn’t anything but a monster - he stepped past me, brushing the wrinkles out of his suit.

“I had a pet, just like you, once upon a time, but mine loved me back” Jim informed me casually and I ignored the gibe at my half status.  “But, he got annoying.”  He strolled over to the large air-conditioning units and stepped behind one of them and I took steps to follow him, only to be stopped when he stepped back out, holding a small wooden crate, no bigger than a child’s shoe box.

“Did you know, that if we take out our hearts, they keep beating” he informed me, looking down into the box and I had a sudden cold feeling that I knew what was in the box.  

“Our bodies would grow a new one” I stated, not wanting to acknowledge the truth.  

“Not if we keep this one near.  In close proximity.  Make regular contact with it”  He said, stopping in front of me, the box between us.  I couldn’t look at it, despite the small, slow rhythmic, barely-there beat I could hear as the organ pulsed against the wooden box.

“When we take it out of our body, it keeps beating and if we keep it close, our body thinks it is still a part of us.  It took me ages to find this out.  I killed Sebastian four times before I figured it out.”  I finally looked down at the box, because I could no longer look at the man.  “I mean, it wasn’t as if he really died.  After a minute or two he was alive again.  But, after that first time, he sort of became a bit weary, so I had to keep him drugged and chained up like the dog that he was.  That is what they are after all.  Animals, here to serve us.”  I watched as the heart beat slowly in the box and a sick feeling came over me.  How could this man have a half a soul somewhere else when not even a shred of one dwelt in his own body?  How had this happened?

“So, you have your mate - chained and possibly dying somewhere just so you could brag about this to me” I asked appalled and still sickened at the whole idea.

“What - no.  This isn’t Sebbies heart” Jim replied, sounding affronted for some reason.  “He’s dead, well and truely.  This is mine.”

“You were in prison for over two weeks.  That wouldn’t have been possible.”  I wasn’t going to believe it.  This was not possible.  This was sick.

“There is always someone to buy off.  You should know that it doesn’t take much to pick out which one is the weakest link.  But, as I was saying” and he turned and walked towards the edge of the building, placing the box on the ledge.  “After a while, six to eight months, our bodies accept that our heart doesn’t belong in our chest so if we break this one” and his leg nudged the box a bit too close to the edge for my liking.  “If we destroy it, then our body doesn’t know it has to grow a new one.  Do you know why it has to be the heart, Sherlock?”

Moriarty was starting to sound bored.  That was not a good sign.  I needed to reign in control.  I couldn’t afford to be shocked any longer.  Somehow, this was a direct threat to me, or to John.  I had to take control.

“Because it houses the soul.  Without the heart, our souls have nowhere to live” I told him, finally dragging my eyes away from the box and to Jims face.  A huge smile took up the bottom half, but his eyes were still black and, well, soulless.  No surprises there.

“Well done you” he cooed as if I were a small child who had just learnt to count to 10.  “So if I were to, say, burn my heart I could live another ten, twenty years - possibly forever, so long as I didn’t do anything that would kill me.  My dear Sebastian lasted eight and a half weeks, but apparently a diet of solely water isn’t enough for the human body to survive.  Oops.”

“He was your partner” I growled.  “You were supposed to look after each other.”

Jim only responded by rolling his eyes and turning away, stepping in the opposite direction of the box on the ledge.  When he turned back to me there was sheer anger in his eyes.  “He got boring” he yelled.  “Years we worked well together - over a century!  He was wonderful at what he did.  He could kill a man in a crowded room without anyone knowing about it until the body fell over, stiff and cold and when he wanted to play, he left the prettiest marks on the bodies.  Their skin was a blank canvas and he, my dear was an artist.”

“He grew a conscience” I stated after seeing a wistful look, just briefly, in Jims eyes.  It didn’t last long before it turned back into pure hatred.  

“He got all sentimental.  Started refusing jobs.  Just small ones at first, innocents, children, nuns.  Then he started refusing all jobs and I had to find more people to carry out my work.  And, god, he nagged so much.  ‘ _Jim, maybe just take a break’ ‘ Jim, surely you can see that this is wrong’ ‘Jim, you’re so smart - why don’t you use that beautiful brain of yours to do something useful - something good.’”_ Jim’s soft Irish lilt dropped to a husky South African as he apparently imitated Sebastian’s voice.  “God, it was horrible.”

I had heard enough.  I didn’t need to hear enough.  “Fantastic, you truely are a psychopath.  Why the games?”

“It was you” Jim replied, looking up at me.  “When I saw you, after all that time, I realised that you had lived without your other half.  I figured I could too.  I could go back to before Seb.  I was truely happy then.  I didn’t even know that I could live forever until I met him.  When I saw that you still didn’t have your other half and were still kicking around, doing what you enjoyed I realised I wanted that too, to be answerable to no one again.  That was why I killed him.”  It was then that something in Jim’s face dropped like a shutter and the psycho became just an empty shell.  “Do you know what happens when you destroy half of your soul?” he asked.  I could only barely imagine the horrors of that, knowing what it was like to temporarily lose it.  He didn’t wait for me to answer, even if I could have.  “It hurts.  It is an unbearable pain, built of grief and guilt and hopeless longing.  The kind you feel when you know there is no reprieve.  It aches, day and night, all year round.  Once I realised this, it was too late.  I realised that you hadn’t learnt to live with it.  That was what the drugs were for.  That was you waiting for your other half.”  

Jim suddenly spun around and stalked back to the box on the ledge.  “But I’m tired now.  I don’t want to ache any more so I have one little proposition for you.”

“And what’s that” I asked, not sure where this was going still.  It wasn’t like he could force me to remove my own heart, nor Johns for that matter, so he wasn’t a permanent threat.  An inconvenient one, (especially since I was extremely fond of this John, far more than all the others) but not an overall threat, so what was his game.

“You’re going to kill yourself” he stated blankly.  I couldn’t help it.  I laughed.  

“And why would I do that?”

“Because, if you don’t, I have three people who are aware of what we are and how to go about ending us all.  At the moment one is at Scotland yard with your brothers half, there is one in your very home with that precious dear old landlady of yours, yes, of course I know about her” he added as confused disbelief crossed my face, “And there is one trailing your little pet, as we speak, which, by the way, he is very aware that you lied to him and is on his way back here as we speak, so if you don’t want him to see you off your self, I suggest we hurry.”

“You want me to cut out my own heart” I asked dumbly, still feeling numb from the information I had just received.  I was pulled out of my dumfounded fog by Jim letting out a high-pitched giggle.  

“God, no.  That would be boring, wouldn’t it.  No, I want you to suffer, Sherlock.  I want you to know that if you ever go near John Watson, in any life, there will always be someone there ready to take him and ready to finish him off permanently.”

“You devised this, all of it - Richard Brooke, the fake report on my life, the assassins, because you want me to suffer.  Why?”  I was angry, absolutely fucking livid.  “Because you blame me for you killing your other half.”

A disappointed look befell Jims face and he gave a short shake of his head.  “No.  This has nothing to do with Seb.  I’m doing this because I was bored.  You understand that, surely.  For a while you were a fun distraction, but not now.  Not any longer.  Now the game ends” and with that, he pulled a lighter from his pocket, lit it and dropped it into the box.  Within seconds the entire things was engulfed in flames.  I went to go for the box, but Jim stepped in front of me and it was then that I could see the pain he was trying to mask, the pain of having his heart burnt out.  His eyes were valiantly trying not to squint, there was a thin sheen of perspiration coating his skin, his lips were pulled into a pinched, taut line and his hand, which was on my shoulder, holding me back, had a slight tremble to it.  The man, truely was mad.  

We stayed like that until the flames died down, until there was nothing but a burnt out crate with a pile of ash were the base of it used to be, siting on the roof ledge of St Barts hospital.  

“Your turn” Jim whispered and I had no choice.  It was me or John.  I knew Mycroft was listening.  He probably already had Mrs Hudson and Lestrade both in protective custody, but John was in transit, not so easy to get to.  

“How do I know you’ll keep your word” I asked as I shakily stood up on the ledge.

“Well, I’m sure your brother has heard all of this, so I guess you will have to rely on him to keep things in check.  Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it.”

At that revelation, that Jim had known Mycroft was listening in the entire time, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, ending the call.  I stood staring at the phone.  DId I send John a message?  Did I say goodbye?  What was the protocol for situations such as these?  How did it all end?

Suddenly I started laughing.  It was all so simple and once I realised that, I couldn’t stop and at realising that I didn’t have to end it all, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” Jim snarked angrily from behind me and I turned to face him, grinning. 

“You’re _not going to do it._ So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. 

I stepped from the ledge and circled Jim.  I had beat him, again.

“I don’t have to die, if I’ve got you” I sang.

“Oh!” he laughs.  “You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?” 

I continued to circle the man, still grinning like a loon.  “Yes. So do you.” 

Jim laughed again.  “Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”

Finally I stopped circling and just stood in front of him, barely half a step away from him.  “Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.” 

“Naah” Jim husked, shaking his head doubtfully. “You talk big.  You’re ordinary – you’re on the side of the angels. “

The smirk dropped from my mouth and I loomed over the smaller man.  “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”

We stared each other down for a few seconds before Jim seemed to draw back in some form of relief.  “No, you’re not. I see. You’re not ordinary. No. You’re me.  You’re me! Thank you!”  

Jim held out his hand to shake, and cautiously I took it.  He tightened his grip.

“As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out” he smiled and I suddenly saw my mistake.  “Well, good luck with that.”

I had no time to react.  Before I even saw the man move, there was a gun in his mouth and the sound of gunshot was echoing in my ears.

This wasn’t possible.  It just wasn’t fucking possible.  I searched around frantically, looking for any clue that this was a trick, but there was nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Fuck.  There was only one option left.  I opened up my phone and sent a message.  

**Make sure John is safe - SH**

The reply was instant.

**Don’t do anything too foolish.  I will be in contact**

**after we have secured everyone.  MH**

Then I stepped back up onto the ledge and was just about to step off when I saw a familiar figure step out of a taxi.  I was going to let John pass, into the hospital, but then I realised that this may be the only opportunity I had to say goodbye to John.  If I was unable to track down Moriarty’s assassins then John would never be safe around me again.  

I called John, and as always, he answered.  Once he realises that I was on top of the building I could hear the panic, just in his breathing and I felt the need to reassure John that none of this was his fault.  I didn’t want him to grieve for me.  

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

John wasn’t buying it, and the tears that were falling down my face didn’t need to be faked.  “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever” I tell him.

“You could” is the instant retort and I can’t help but let out a small huff of laughter.  My John, faithful to the very end.

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.  It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

John tried so hard to dissuade me, but it was his life on the line.  There was no choice for me.  There was no negotiations, no room for doubt.  This would happen.  

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”  From up where I was I could see John shake his head, trying to make a lie out of the absolute truth that he was hearing.

“Leave a note when?”  He was always so good at denial.  I sometimes envied him, but it couldn’t go on any longer.  I didn’t know who the threat was, nor when or how they would strike.  I had to end this now.

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t” I heard My John call through the phone, just as I threw the device behind me.  I wouldn’t need it where I was going.

John screaming out “NO. SHERLOCK” loud enough for me to hear clearly from the rooftop almost made me change my mind,  but I needed to be strong.  I needed to be selfless.  I had to do this, so I spread my arms out to the side and tipped forward.

My last thought was that I should have taken the coat off.  Blood was murder to get out of wool and then I hit the ground.


	7. While You Were Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year after Sherlocks death and John realises he is not moving on as well as he thought he was. It doesn't help that it appears he can't die.
> 
> Chapter from Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SELF HARM & ATTEMPTED SUICIDE. If these things are triggers for you then skip to the end where there is a rough summary of the chapter.

_But, I think, maybe, there is some validity in accepting that a part of you went with the person who died, and a part of them stayed with you._

_\- Unknown_

~~~~~~~~~~

**2012**

I stumbled along the sidewalk in the direction I was pretty sure was home.  God damn fucking street signs.  They were never there when you needed them.  

I walked along, swaying from one side of the footpath to the next, relishing in how warm the scotch had made me feel, because somewhere along the way I had misplaced my jacket, when a car pulled up next to me.

It was a familiar sight.  Black, shiny, windows tinted at what I was pretty sure was an illegal shade.  God damn fucking Mycroft.  Couldn’t just let me grieve in peace.  Always had to fucking interfere.  I ignored him and kept stumbling along. 

“Doctor Watson” came an unfamiliar voice, but even in the state I was in, I knew it was a minion.  He had the bored, twatty, fucking posh tone that just screamed that he worked for the likes of Mycroft Arse-Wipe Holmes.  

In response I just raised my hand in something that hopefully resembled _up yours_ and continued on home.  

“Doctor Watson” the voice repeated, and then continued on talking.  “I have been instructed to inform you that you are headed in the wrong direction and to give you a lift home.” 

I stumbled to a stop.  Damn fucking scotch and damn fucking new pub.  When I went in earlier in the evening I just knew I would lose my bearings upon exiting.  “I’m not going home” I announced, as if it had been my plan all along to head in that particular direction.  “So you can tell Mycroft to fuck off” and I continued walking again, quite proud that my words hadn’t been as slurred as I had thought they would going to be.  

I wasn’t aware of the hand on my arm until I had been turned around and I was about to push the man away when I realised that I was not in fact looking at the driver of the car but was in fact looking at Greg.  I opened his mouth to tell Greg to fuck off too, but nothing came out except a pained whine.

“Come on, John.  Lets get you home.”

Home was warm and it smelt like the stir-fry I had reheated for dinner before heading out to the pub.  The meal was still sitting on the kitchen table.  I had managed to get a bite down before my appetite had shrivelled up and died.

“Here” Greg said, pushing a hot cup into my hands.  I looked up at him, somewhat dubiously.  “I promise, this one’s not drugged” he answered with a wry sort of grin on his face.

The two of us sat on the couch, in silence, sipping at our coffee’s.  It was a stark reminder of that day exactly 12 months ago, except then I wasn’t sobering up.  Then I had been starting to doze thanks to the sedative Greg had slipped into my tea.  But everything else was the same.  The silence, the exhaustion, the pain.  I thought it had gotten better, I really had. 

Two months after Sherlock had thrown himself off a building I finally had the strength, both physically and mentally, to go back to work.  I had stopped slamming the door in both Mycroft and Gregs face and had also given up on the idea of moving out of Baker Street.  That idea had been quelled when Mrs Hudson had started crying when I had informed her of my intentions to move.  She too had lost someone.  It was hardly fair to allow her to lose another person, so I had stayed and had boxed up most of Sherlocks possessions and sent Mycroft a message telling him to come pick them up or I would throw them out.  When I had returned from work that day the boxes had been gone.  

I got drunk that night too.

But then today, at work, I had dated a form and realised that it had been exactly one year since I had heard Sherlock try to convince me that he was a fraud.  Twelve months since the selfish bastard had stepped off of the edge of Bart’s.  Three hundred and sixty five days since I had looked at Sherlocks bloodied skull and held his lifeless, limp wrist in my hand.  Eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty four and a half hours since I realised that I had lost the man that I had loved. 

That particular realisation had made that day all the worse.  I had the most wonderful person, within my reach, for eighteen months and it was only as I realised he was gone that I realised I had loved him, almost from the beginning.  And now I couldn’t tell him.

Now I had nothing. 

A year on and it still hurt.

“You want to talk about it?” Greg asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.  I just gave a shake of my head.  It’s not like it was going to change anything.  I had talked multiple times with Ella.  It only ever made it feel worse.

There was silence again, but it wasn’t to last.

“How have you been?” Greg asked casually.  “Apart from today, that is.”

I was going to refuse the answer but decided to humour Greg.  After all, he had been kind enough to see that I had got home alright.

“Fine.  Good, really.  I had a bit of a cold the other week, probably something I picked up at the clinic, but it turned out to be nothing worth worrying about.  Harry called.”

“Your sister, yeah?”

I nodded.  “Yeah.  She’s heading back into rehab.  Thought I might like to know.  It will be her sixth try.  I’m not holding out much hope.”

“I don’t know” Greg offered.  “You know what they say.  Sixth times the charm.”

At this I chuckled, for no reason other than it was just absurd, and didn’t it feel good.  It didn’t last long.  I placed my cup on the floor by my feet and ran my hands over my face.  I was a mess.  I needed a shave, I was sure something dead was living in my mouth and I smelt like a cheap, run-down pub.  “I’m a mess” I groaned.  

Greg placed a hand on my shoulder and I looked around to him.  “You’re not a mess” he assured me.  “Today was always going to be hard.”

“I didn’t even realise what day it was until I got to work” I offered.  The thought left me feeling sick, that I had forgotten Sherlocks anniversary.  Or that could have been the vodka I had used to chase the scotch.

“That’s actually not a bad thing, John” Greg said quietly.  “It means you are moving on with your life.  It’s not healthy to dwell.”

I slumped back onto the couch.  Greg was right.  I had given patients much the same advice.  But, fuck, it was hard - moving on, pretending like everything was okay.  Sherlock was gone.  He wasn’t coming back.  I let my eyes slide shut.  

“You wanna move to your room?” I heard Greg ask.

I smiled, cracking my eyes open to look at the man next to me.  “You coming on to me?”

I was met with a chuckle from Greg.  “I’m fond of you mate, but no that fond.”

I felt my smile grow before falling away.  I was tired.  So fucking tired.  “Thanks, but I think I might kip here for the night. Don’t fancy tackling the stairs.”

Greg gave a short nod and stood up.  “You going to be alright on your own?” he asked and I nodded in return.  I would be.  I had to be.  There was no other appealing alternative.

“Yeah. I’ll sleep off the rest of the liquor and feel sorry for myself tomorrow when I have the worlds biggest hangover.”

Greg sent me an understanding smile.  “Call if you need anything.  Even if it’s just to chat, yeah?”

I nodded, knowing I wouldn’t, and Greg took his leave.  Once I heard the door downstairs close I curled up on my side and closed my eyes.  With any luck the alcohol would keep the dreams away.

~o~

I cursed as I ran my hand under the tap, scrubbing at the cut I had just put there.  It was a stupid mistake, made from not concentrating.  I had been trying to beat the contestants on _The Chase_ while chopping carrots and the knife had slipped, getting the top knuckle on my index finger.  Obviously I hadn’t cut it as deep as I originally thought because the flow was already stemming.  I turned the tap off and then wrapped my finger in some paper towel while I one handedly fumbled in the first aid kit for a bandaid.  When I finally found one, I pulled the paper away from my finger to find that not only had the cut stopped bleeding altogether but the nick was so small that it appeared to not be there at all, which was ridiculous.  My finger had most definitely been bleeding.  There was blood on the knife, as well as a few spots on the paper towel I had wrapped around my finger.  Not wanting it to get infected I placed the bandaid where I knew the cut was and continued preparing dinner.

~o~

I rushed over to where the orderly was trying to restrain the young woman, who had just been brought into A&E, was lashing out at not only the staff, but also herself, trying to scratch at her skin as if trying to flay it from her very bones. 

“Get ‘em out of me” she screamed.  I cringed at the thought of coke bugs, because that is clearly what she was experiencing.  I only had to look at her to know she was high as a kite. 

The big burly man on the other side of the gurney had managed to get her left hand into the Velcro shackle which had made my job of getting her right one contained easier, but just as I thought she was calming she managed to find one more bout of strength and she pulled her hand free of my grasp and lashed out, punching me hard enough in the eye to send me staggering back a few steps.

Fuck, that hurt.  I had been hit with less force by men in the army so I knew there was no way I was walking away from that without a black eye, but I needed to help the orderly get this girls hand restrained before she hurt herself anymore.  

“Get them out, get them out” she cried over and over again, trying to reach for her own arm.  “They’re in my skin, get them out.”

Finally, with a bit more wrestling,  the second hand was restrained and I could get to work sedating the girl in order to treat her overdose and other injuries.

“You need to get that seen to, doc, before it gets too bad” the orderly said nodding to my face as I sterilised the many wounds on the patients legs.

“It’ll just be a bruise” I replied, brushing off the mans concern.  “I’ve had worse.”

Once I was finished I got a nurse to look over the eye and cheek anyway, just to double check there wasn’t actually any real damage.  She gave me a clean bill of health and commented that I was lucky that the bruising wasn’t any worse, but I knew that come tomorrow, the bruising would be a hell of a lot worse, despite her reassurances.  

The following morning, I was surprised to see that there was no bruising at all.

~o~

Sarah had sent me home, and I couldn’t be more thankful.  The shower at work had done nothing to quell the overall disgustingness I felt at having being thrown up on by a four year old.  

Now, this hadn’t been the first time I had been thrown up on and usually it was just a quick shower and change into a pair of scrubs that were normally kept at the clinic for just this reason, but it was the first time I had managed to get thrown up on in my mouth.  

I had offered to hold the four year old child, while mum comforted the other six year old child who was having stitches put in his arm by Sarah.  What mum hadn’t told us was that the four year old had been feeling off all day, so when I, who had the child held up high on my hip, had turned to ask if she would like a sticker (Julie in reception had brought in new ones that smelt like bubblegum when scratched - they had been a huge hit with the kids), I noticed that she had gone a funny shade of green and before I could react she opened her mouth and thrown up over me, getting my neck and shoulder and the lower portion of my face - slightly open mouth included.

I had been relieved of babysitting duties and had been allowed to shower while another doctor diagnosed the child with gastroenteritis.  Fantastic.  Just what I needed - to come down sick, because I was most certainly going to.  

I got home and showered again, scrubbing myself with a sponge and an obscene amount of anti-bacterial soap and rinsing out my mouth with practically an entire bottle of mouthwash.  I then swallowed down half a bottle of vitamin c tablets, which I had stopped at the shops to buy on the way home, along with several glasses of orange juice.

I then curled up on the couch, already feeling my stomach roiling, with my quilt, a bucket and a large bottle of water.  

It hit less than three hours later, with me not sure what end I wanted to use on the toilet, so I sat there with the bucket between my knees, hoping that my death would be swift.  Ten minutes later, reeking of disinfectant, I shuffled back to the couch and wrapped myself back under the quilt and dozed off to the nattering on Antique Roadshow.  It was going to be a miserable twenty-four hours.

Six hours later, I woke up feeling right as rain.

~o~

Jesus christ.  How did I manage to find myself in these situations.  Still?  It had been sixteen months since Sherlock had died, since my life had gone back to normal (boring) yet somehow I had found myself in a back alley with a gun aimed at my head and all because I had decided to take up jogging and found taking more out of the way routes led to having to dodge less people.  

It had been purely accidental that I had stumbled across an abduction in progress and once I had taken out one assailant, allowing the woman to run free, I had found myself, backed against the wall, with a gun to my head.

“You fucking prick” the man with the gun hissed.  “Do you know what you just cost me?”

I opened his mouth to answer that I couldn’t care less, but I never got to make a sound for right then, the man pulled the trigger and everything was gone.

~o~

I woke up to pain.  My face scrunched up and I moaned.  I felt like shit.  My whole body ached, but it was nothing compared to the pain searing through my head.  Slowly I peeled open my eyes and was met with darkness.  I closed them again and let the cool air wash over me.  

I didn’t know where I was, or how I got there, but it was outside and hard.  I tried hard to recall what had happened.  The last thing I remembered was leaving Baker Street to go for a run.

Groaning I opened my eyes again.  It took a while, but eventually they opened all the way and within a few seconds they had adjusted enough to the darkness surrounding me to realise that I was laying in an alley way, squashed between a dumpster and a brick wall.  Slowly, I sat up, using the edge of the skip for support and I looked around again.  It looked vaguely familiar and that is when the memories started trickling in.  

I had left the flat, calling out a goodbye to Mrs Hudson as I waked out the door.  I had jogged through the backstreets and alley ways for three or four blocks before I stopped.  There was a woman and two guys.  They were trying to push her into a car, but she didn’t want to go, fuck, what had happened after that?

I rubbed the front of my head, hoping to massage some of the headache away and yelped when my hand made contact with my forehead.  It felt bruised.  Very badly bruised.  Gingerly, I felt my head looking for any other damage.  There was an indent, oddly enough, not very deep - probably half a centimetre, and there was something on my skin - dried and crusty.  I rubbed my finger in some and brought it to my lips, spitting it out immediately.  Dried blood.  I apparently had a cut on my head somewhere.  

Standing up I teetered to the side and grabbed onto the bin for support to stop myself from stumbling to the ground once more and I closed my eyes in concentration once more, trying to recall what happened after I came across the girl.  

There had been a scuffle.  I remembered one of the men falling to the ground, unconscious and then she had run away.  I gruffed out a sharp exhale of breath.  _Ungrateful cow.  Didn’t even call the cops_.  I really couldn’t be arsed feeling sympathetic for the woman at that moment and I staggered forward, patting my pockets for my phone. Unsurprisingly it was gone, as were my wallet. The bastard had even taken my iPod.   That realisation pissed me ff more than anything else that had happened that day. It had taken forever, and a lot of fucking frustration, uploading the songs I wanted to that damn thing and now it was gone.  I took a few limping steps along the alley way as more memories trickled back.  

There was one more guy and he had been pissed.  Had said something - asked me something - and I hadn’t had a chance to explain because…because… _fuck_ , it was there, right in the forefront of my mind, but I couldn’t grasp the memory.  There was too much pain.  I gingerly inched along the concreted path, determined not to worry about it anymore when something made me stop in my tracks.  It was a dark stain, parts of it still glistening with moisture.  I turned my head to study it closer.  Next to the puddle were the remains of what looked like my iPod, half lying in the now tacky puddle of what I was certain was blood.  

I shuffled closer and groaned as I bent down to pick up the smashed gadget.  Before I even got close enough for my fingers to reach it my nostrils were assaulted with the metallic tang of blood and I reeled back as one more memory came flooding back.

The other guy had had a gun, right up against my head.  He had pulled the trigger.  It had gone off.  I remembered the bang of the weapon firing.  There was no way he could have missed, the nuzzle was pressed up against my head.  

Again, I felt the front of my head, hissing as the pain flared up once again.  The indent, it was small enough to fit the size of a bullet, but it was impossible.  There was no hole, just an inverted lump.  

I pulled my eyes away from the puddle and looked up.  The sight that met me didn’t make me feel better at all.  The wall, at eye height, was sprayed with something dark, something that I would bet was also blood.  

Not wanting to know the answer, but also unable to ignore it any longer, I reached up to the back of my head.  My fingers brushed over my hair until I found what I was certain was impossible.  There was a patch, at the back of his head, now hair free and caked in dried blood.  The patch,  the exact size an exit wound would have been, was soft and tender to touch, just like the front of my head.   

My hand dropped away from my head and I took a steadying breath in as I straightened up.  The next thing I knew I was vomiting everything I had in my stomach, adding to the mess I had apparently already left in the alley way.

~o~

I hadn’t left the flat in over a week.  I couldn’t leave the flat.  I was going mental.  Certifiably mental!

The tenderness in my head had gone, as had any bruising.  The hair at the back of my head had also started growing back in.  All good things, I supposed.

I had gone to call Greg when I had got home that night, to report being mugged, but then I realised I didn’t have a phone, and I wasn’t quite sure how to tell a perfectly sane person that I had been shot, point blank, in the head, but it was all fine, because apparently I had pulled a Captain Jack Harkness and was perfectly okay now.

The following morning, Mrs Hudson had fretted over me, worried I was getting a cold, as I refused to remove the knitted cap I had decided to wear until my hair grew back in, but I had assured her I was okay - just a mild case of the flu and could I please borrow her phone to call in sick to work.  

She only seemed mildly placated but had handed over her phone with no questions asked.  Sarah had been happy to give me a couple of weeks off because she had been trying to get me to take what she called _long overdue holidays_ for a few months now.

So I had spent the entire week, trapped in my flat, too fucking scared to leave.  

I sat in my chair and watched TV.  I watched Grand Designs and Top Gear.  I watched the Simpsons and the Late show with Jimmy Fallon.  I watched Antique Roadshow and IT Crowd. I did not watch anything that reminded me of getting shot in the head, which was a pity because they were re-running _Ashes to Ashes_ again.  

I also baked. A lot.  There were cakes and scones and tarts and quiches and pies.  Sweet, savoury, in any flavour I could manage.  They were bagged labelled and sitting in the freezer waiting to be eaten.  Mrs Hudson had relieved me of some, but I couldn’t stand the thought of eating much these days, so they stayed in the freezer waiting for Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner to finish those that I had already given to them just so I could give them more.

I hadn’t bothered replacing my missing phone and refused to open my laptop.  If I did that then I would start googling shit.  Things such as immortality or bullet proof heads and I didn’t want to know what I would find.  Plus there was always, (still), the chance that Mycroft was monitoring my internet and I didn’t fancy someone who had control over a facility such as Baskerville to be alerted to my new…idiosyncrasy.

This was most likely the reason that seven days after I was sure I had been shot in the head, I received a visitor.

“Greg” I greeted, opening the door.  

“John” Greg greeted back and then waited for me to let him in.  

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, thought I’d come and see how things were.”

“Fine.  Perfect.  Couldn’t be better.  Do you like cranberry pie?”

If Greg had thought I was acting strange, which I was - even I knew that - he said nothing and just answered.  “Can’t say I’ve tried it to be honest.  Can you put cranberries into a pie.”

I went to the freezer and pulled out two pies.  “Fantastic hot, with a bit of ice cream” and I placed the pies on the table in front of Greg.

“These belong to you?” Greg asked, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket and holding it up, after nodding out a thanks for the pies.

Inside were my wallet and phone.  I wasn’t stupid.  I knew Greg knew they belonged to me.  For a starters, my ID was in the wallet.  Secondly, Mycroft had got me the phone for Christmas the year before Sherlock…well, needless to say, Greg was asking unnecessary questions so I knew I had to be careful with my answers.

“Yeah, lost ‘em about a week back.  Where’d you find them?”

“Man was found, two days ago, killed in his flat.  These were among his possessions.”

Sherlock always said that a good lie was close to the truth, and he was a master at lying, and knowing that I had to give a good reason as to why my belongings were in the hands of a murdered man I said, “Probably the bastard that mugged me.”  It wasn’t a lie exactly.

“And you didn’t report it?” Greg asked, placing the bag on the table.

I just shrugged.  

“Arsehole hit me over the head pretty hard.  By the time the concussion was gone, I guess I just didn’t think about it.  Haven’t really had time.”

“Concussion.  So there will be hospital records then?”

“I’m a doctor Greg” I rumbled, not liking where this was going.  “I fixed myself up.  Am I a suspect here?”

Something in Greg seemed to deflate.  “No.  No, we have the guy that did it.  He was part of a drug ring.  It’s just.  You’ve been acting a bit strange, a bit distant lately.   Mrs Hudson said you hadn’t left the flat for over a week.  We’re worried about you, is all.”

I felt myself relax a bit also.  “I’m fine Greg, I promise.”

“John, You have been baking cranberry pies and are currently watching Coronation Street” at this, Greg indicated towards the TV.  “They are not indications of someone who is _alright_.”

“I also baked salmon tarts” I announced, somewhat affronted.  

A bark of laughter left Gregs mouth.  “Not really diminishing my argument.”   The smile faded from his face.  “Come out with me.”

I opened my mouth to decline but Greg held up his hand.  “Just you and me, tonight at the Elephant, and prove to me that you are really okay.”

I couldn’t think of any way that would lower Gregs suspicions so I took a deep breath and agreed to go.

Greg grinned.  “Great, I’ll see you there at seven and John?”

“Yeah?”

“Lose the hat” and with that he was gone taking the cranberry pies him.

~o~

Nothing strange had happened when I met up with Greg.  I wasn’t exactly sure what I had expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t a normal evening out.  We had drunk beer, watched the cricket on the small telly in the corner of the bar and talked about what was going on in our lives, excluding the afternoon seven nights ago.  We had laughed at each others stories, Greg thanked me for the pies, on Mycrofts behalf and then we had gone our seperate ways.  

No one else tried to kill me and no secret agency had tried to kidnap me.  It was, apparently, all fine.

~o~

I took the second week I had off of work to try and answer some of my new found questions.  

The main question I wanted answered was, had I really been shot in the head that night, but I wasn’t feeling game enough to pull my gun out of the safe and place it in my mouth, just to test a theory.  

What I needed to do, was start of small.

Pulling out the first aid kit, I opened up one of the sterile suture kits and pulled out the needle.  I held it up, carefully studying the curved tip.  Nice and sharp.  Just what I needed.

Placing the point of the needle to the tip of my finger I pushed down. It didn’t take long for the needle to pierce the skin and when I pulled it out it was soon followed by a scarlet bead of blood.  I sat and watched the drop sit on my finger tip, not moving a muscle, not even daring to blink.  A minute later there was an uncomfortable feeling under the drop of blood, almost like an itch, but inside of my finger.  My finger involuntarily twitched and the drop of blood sluggishly rolled down my finger, blobbing onto the table, not quite fanning out to form a puddle.  Using my thumb, I wiped away the smear of blood that was left on the tip of my finger.   There was nothing to see.  Not even a scab.  The skin was flawless, as if I had never broken it in the first place.  But the blood was definitely on the table, a trail of it still drying on the side of my finger.  There had been a puncture.  Now there wasn’t.

I spent the next thirty or so minutes just staring at my finger tip, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t actually going mad.  

I packed up the first aid kit and pulled down the bottle of whiskey I had in the top of the cupboard.  I drank enough to get myself pleasantly buzzed and then took myself to bed.  

~o~

The pin prick test was carried out several times the following morning.  After getting the same results multiple times I decided to move onto something a bit less tame.  Again, pulling the first aid kit out of the cupboard, I removed my scalpel.  I held it to the thumb on my right hand and pushed down.  Before I could apply enough pressure to break the skin, I pulled back, placed the scalpel on the table and then pulled down the bottle of whiskey again.  I poured himself two fingers, knocked it back and sat a minute while the alcohol hummed through my system, letting a feeling of almost calm settle over me.  Again, I picked up the scalpel, and placing it on the the tip of my thumb I muttered “ _It’s for science_ ” and then pulled the blade down to the bend, several hissed curses leaving my mouth as I did so.

The cursing stopped as the blood flowed too slowly too soon.  Before long it had stopped all together.  Then, right before my eyes, the skin started to heal.  It carried out the process of scabbing over before the skin replenished itself and after twenty minutes there was nothing but a faint pink line down half of my thumb.  There wasn’t even going to be a scar.  

I didn't even put my first aid  kit away before I poured myself another drink.  

Before I went to bed that night there were multiple faint pink lines, of varying lengths and deepnesses all over my body.  

~o~

“ _HhhuhhhnnnnffffffffFUCK_ ” I cried out and pulled my hand off of the hot plate.  The burn that covered the back of my hand was already blistering.  

I could feel the sweat glistening along my forehead as I thought that maybe I had gone too far this time.  Gingerly I stepped over to the sink and ran the cold water and then placed my hand under it.  God, I was going to have fun explaining this to the A&E nurse.  I let the water run over my hand until my fingers went numb and then I shut the faucet off.  I pulled my hand back and studied the burn.  

Impossible.

The blisters were gone.  Now it was just red and angry and really fucking sore, but it had started to heal.  

I dressed the wound and went on with the rest of the day, not going up to the hospital after all.  I didn’t feel the need to repeat that particular experiment, especially since I could still smell burnt flesh whenever I got too close to the stove.

~o~

I giggled as I held the bowling ball in my hands.  Where the fuck had Sherlock got a bowling ball and what the fuck for.  Just the thought of the tall lanky wanker strutting around in bowling shoes was enough to send me, who may have had a little bit too much tequila to take the edge off, into another round of giggles.  It was a good thing that I had missed the ball, hiding away in the back of the linen closet when I had gather all of Sherlocks possessions all that time ago,  because if I had seen it, it would have gotten tossed with the rest of Sherlocks stuff but right now it was going to prove to be mighty helpful.

I rolled the ball around in my hand.  16 pounds and electric pink.  God, it was fucking glaringly atrocious and for some reason my alcohol addled mind sent me into a wave of fresh giggles as again I imagined Sherlock doing that fancy move where they bowl the ball and the leg slides out behind them.  

It was good though.  The laughter helped take my mind off of why I had to drop the ball.  

“ _Jesusfuckingbuggerygoatwhorefuck, fuck, FUCK!_ ”

The ball had hit its mark, which was my bare foot.  Later I would be thankful that it didn’t crack the bathroom tiles - Mrs Hudson would definitely have had words at that - but for the moment I was trying to not let the tears of pain blur my vision.  I needed to see if my foot was broken.  As soon as I lifted my foot off of the ground the tears welled up, but it didn’t matter.  I didn’t need to look at it to see that it was indeed broken.  Slowly, I shuffled to the bathroom counter, grabbed the bottle of tequila and slid to the floor.  I took a massive swig and had a fleeting thought about setting and strapping the foot, but then I passed out. 

~o~

I must be fucking mad.  Truely, fucking mad.  I had limped into work the following morning and was glad I didn’t have to lie when Sarah asked “What in this great green land have you done now, Watson?”

“Would you believe me if I said I dropped a bowling ball on my foot?”

Sarah had sighed, commented that I was lucky I hadn’t done more damage and then written out the prescription for piroxicam.  Thankfully she hadn’t asked about the burn on the back of my hand, which was now just a silvery pink.

I now sat in my chair with the entire content of each capsule I had been prescribed, sitting in the bottom of my glass.  The recommended dose was 20 mg a day.  There sat 140 mg.  Mixed with the vodka I was about to add to the glass and heart failure was bound to occur.  Somehow, I didn’t think that that was going to be a problem.

I three quarters filled the cup with vodka, placed the bottle on the floor next to my chair and waited for the powder to stop fizzing and bubbling.  Using a spoon, I stirred it to speed up the process.  When I was happy with the amount dissolved I brought the cup to my lips and knocked the whole thing back in three quick gulps.  Once it was gone, I poured myself another vodka.  I didn’t get through the entire glass before I passed out.

When I awoke I decided that I didn’t ever want  to have a heart attack again, and then spent the following two hours under a cold shower trying not to overheat and throwing up everything I had in my stomach.  

I slept on the couch that night, too achingly sore to make my way up the stairs to my bedroom.  My final thought as I finally slipped into slumber was that I hoped Mrs Hudson didn’t come in as I was pretty sure the blanket wasn’t completely covering my bare arse.

~o~

I took the following day off from testing the limits of my new found superpower.  I could be cut, quite deeply it seemed, burnt, break my bones and give myself a fatal overdose and come out on the other side feeling nothing worse than a bad night out at the pub with some of my roughest mates.

I took the day to cautiously plod around the flat, tidying up and put a few affairs in order.  If all were to carry on, it would be unnecessary, but I liked to be prepared for all occasions.  That night I met Greg for a pint and ordered dinner from Angelo’s, where I ate it sitting on the couch whilst watching the latest Bond movie.  By ten o’clock I was ready for bed and that night, I slept better than I had in over a year.  

When I woke up, I made my bed, got dressed and went and had breakfast with Mrs Hudson.  Once she left for bridge, I then went up to my bedroom and got my gun out of the safe.  Making sure it was loaded I went down and caught a cab and directed it to take me out to the Battersea power station that I had met Irene in, what seemed like an eternity ago. 

This was where I was going to do it.  Quiet, abandoned and not likely to be disturbed.  Most of all, there would be no mess for Mrs Hudson to find.  

If all went well, I could clean the mess up myself, but not before Mrs Hudson found it.  If all went wrong then, well, I was going mad anyway so, there was really no problem.  

I made my way to the top floor, stood against the back wall, placed the gun in my mouth and, turning the safety off, pulled the trigger. 

~o~

I had never thrown up so much in my life.  It wasn’t even like there was anything left to throw up, but every time I looked at the splatter on the wall, my stomach roiled again and I found myself heaving up anything I had left inside my stomach.  

Eventually it stopped, and I laid down, curled up in the foetal position and tried to relax.  My stomach hurt, I felt sick, my head felt like it had been cleaved in two and I could still taste gun powder and metal.  

Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to bring supplies with me, such as painkillers and a spare change of clothes.  

It had been three hours, after I pulled the trigger, that I woke up in a puddle of my own blood and apparently brain matter.  The instant I had realised what had happened I had started throwing up, even though this wasn’t the first time I had survived having my brains blown out.  The vomiting had continued for close on another hour.  

I would like to say that I would have been happy to lay like that until death claimed me, but I now had proof that that was never going to fucking happen and the though made me want to cry but since I didn’t have the energy to do that properly, I just lay there and let the tears fall down my face.

This was my life now.  Alone and unable to end it.  I didn’t understand why it had happened to me and I couldn’t even talk to anyone about it.  Unless I could prove it, I would be locked up in a loony bin.  If I could prove it, I would be locked up in a science lab.  

After another hour or so, the headache started to abate.  I brought my hand up to my forehead and sure enough, the skin had healed over.  It was still bruised and more than likely swollen, but there was no hole.  

I sat up and pulled the knitted cap out of my pocket and over my head.  Now I had another bald patch to cover up, and just after the first one had grown enough hair to not be noticeable.  Standing up, I slowly made my way outside.  Thankfully London had lived up to her reputation and it was raining outside.  The water would hopefully wash away the blood on my clothes and face.

~o~

I fiddled with the small velvet box on the table in front of me.  It was never going to work.  What the hell had I been thinking?

I tapped the corner of the small box a couple of times on the top of the table and then placed it back in my pocket.   Picking up the menu I decided to order a bottle of champagne anyway.  I was paying a fortune, may as well enjoy it.

“Can I ’elp you with anything, sir?” Came a french voice from behind me. 

“Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one” I replied, not taking my eyes of the menu, trying to make heads or tales out of the fucking french that was before me.

Why had I decided The Landmark was a good place to bring Fiona and why the hell hadn’t I paid attention in French at school?

The waiter spoke again, leaning over my shoulder, which wasn’t exactly comfortable, and pointed to a few options.  “Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages.”

Still too vague.  “Er, it’s not really my area. What do you suggest?”

“Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation …” the waiter offered and I was getting testy - of course dinner couldn’t have been a simple affair.  The entire day had been just one disappointment after the other and of course I wanted his personal opinion.  It was why I had asked.

“Mm-hm” I responded, because if I opened his mouth I was going to say something not very polite.

“ This last one on the list is a favourite of mine.  It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past.”

“Great” I agreed.  “I’ll have that one, please. “

“It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of _surprise_!” The waiter told me.

“Well, er, surprise me” I barely managed to get out politely and then took a deep breath as I heard the waiter muttering something as he walked away.  _Arrogant prick._

It wasn’t  long before I was joined by my _date_ again and she sat in the chair opposite me.

“Sorry that took so long” she apologised, placing her hand over mine.  I returned the gesture.  “You sounded positively miserable on the phone this morning.  Want to get it off your chest.  I promise, no more work related calls.  I’ve turned my phone off.  I’m all yours.”

I debated on whether to unload my latest worries or continue my self pity in solitary.  In the end I just decided to lay it all out and reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the velvet box I had been playing with moments before and held it out to Clara.

She took the box and opened it up to see two sapphire earrings nestled inside the box.

“Oh, Johnny, they’re beautiful.  If I didn’t like the ladies you would definitely be getting lucky tonight.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.  I knew Clara was a good choice for tonight.  She had always been easy to talk to. 

‘You can keep them if you want” I said.  “Don’t really fancy taking them back to the jewellers.  They always give you this pitying sort of smile, you know the one” and at that Clara gave me the exact smile.  Again, I chuckled.  

“Aww, thanks honey” she said closing the lid and placing the box in her little clutch purse.  I would never understand how they fit anything into those tiny little things.  “I just love receiving other womens jewellery.  Makes me feel all kinds of special” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yet you still accept it” I said, starting to feel much better.  

“So, what happened to the intended receiver of gift we shall no longer mention?”

I gave a shrug.  “ I don’t know.  We had been going out forrrr, three months now, thought we were doing splendidly so I decided I would take her out to dinner, give her a really nice gift go back to hers and have mind blowing sex.”  I knew that it was fruitless in the long run.  I honestly couldn’t think that a longterm relationship would work.  Wouldn’t that be fun to explain. ‘ _Yeah, by the way.  I can’t die_.’  I could envision that conversation going perfectly.

“Then, she called me up, first thing this morning and told me that it was off.”

“Is it because of the….” and Clara broke off her sentence and used her finger to waggle over her top lip.

“Fuck you” I chuckled.  My recently established facial hair had been the brunt of many jokes, but they had all been in good humour, so I hadn’t given the slightest shit.  Fiona was fond of it, so I had been fond of it.  “No, it wasn’t because of my dashing mo, which she liked very much if you must know, she said it felt rather good against her…”

“Okay, enough, I get the picture” Clara said frantically, but with a smile that was too large to be offended. 

“No, she said she couldn’t see a future with us, together.”

“And you had already laid a deposit on the table and didn’t want to waste your money.”

“Something like that” I supplied, suddenly feeling tired.  God, I had just wanted a nice evening, a happy partner and some really great sex, something I had not been getting until around six months ago.  Since then I had gone through four women.  Fiona had lasted though.  I had really liked her.  Apparently, she hadn’t liked me the same way.  “Sorry, yet another persons gift you’ve been treated to” I said, taking Clara’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

‘It’s alright.  Better than sitting at home with the cat and a box of maltesers.”

Just then the waiter arrived with the bottle of champagne which he held a bit too close to my face than was strictly necessary.  

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking.”

Clara looked up at the waiter and then to me and started giggling for some reason.  I was glad that Clara could see the funny side, so far I just thought he was a bit of a tosser. 

“It ’as all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new” the waiter announced and I took note, for the first time, of just how awful his accent was.  “Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers  ... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.”  In was vaguely aware of the accent dropping on the final word and I turned to tell the ridiculous man to please just place the bottle on the table and bugger off.

“Look, seriously, could you just …”  My request stopped dead in my throat as my eyes took in something I never expected to see, ever again.  

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo” Sherlock said, dropping the accent and the fake voice completely.   “Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.”

I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t look at the man before me and I almost couldn’t breath.  I could hear Clara asking after me and I could hear Sherlock prattling on.  I didn’t catch anything until the words “Not dead” were spoken and I finally glared up at… _him_.  At least he had the decency to look guilty.  Not something I had ever seen on the man before.

He started babbling.  I was only a bit aware of what he was saying and his interaction with Clara.  There was brief whispered squabble between the two of them and when I finally looked up at him he had wiped off the stupid moustache he had pencilled on his upper lip.

“Two years” I whispered angrily and I could feel the tremor in my hand start up.  I clenched my fist to stop it.  “I thought ... you were dead.”  I could feel myself getting angry as memories and feelings I thought I had dealt with over the past two years came flooding back.  “Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?”

There was no answer.  Just Sherlock looking extremely out of his depth.  

“How?” I hissed, wanting an answer.  I knew my face was red and the shaking in my hand was now clearly visible.  I wanted to hit something.  No - _someone_.  Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes to be exact.  

“Wait – before you do anything that you might regret …” Sherlock interjected, obviously reading the signs that I was _fucking furious_ and very volatile.  “One question. Just let me ask one question. Um …” I almost pounced when a small giggle left Sherlocks mouth, just the breath of one, but it boiled my blood all the same.  “Are you really gonna keep that?!”

Once the waiters and the maître d’ had pulled my hands from around Sherlocks neck, we were asked politely to leave the Landmark Hotel and to not bother making a reservation there again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary:  
> So, John has moved on with his life after discovering, once Sherlock killed himself, that he was, in actual fact, in love with the man. Sixteen months after Sherlocks death he finds himself interrupting an abduction and is shot in the head by one of the would be abductors. When he wakes up he sets about testing the limits of his new immortality and trying to adjust to his new life. Eight months later he is having dinner at the Landmark with Clara when Sherlock makes his own miraculous return from the dead. John is not happy!


	8. So, This Is How It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk. There is a lot to discuss before they can move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for it being almost a month before I finalised this chapter, but I kept getting stumped on how to progress. It almost got split into 2 chapters, but I didn't really want to do that, so I persevered and now here it is, longer than the rest, but here all the same. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me throughout this fic. Your support has been a wonderful aid in getting this completed and has pushed me along when I felt like throwing it all in. This last chapter is for you all! And for everyone who have just joined us, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> ~o~
> 
> This chapters jump between Sherlock’s (normal) and John’s (italicised) POV. Apologies for any confusion.

_Redamancy_

_pronunciation ‘red - a -“man - sE_

_(n) the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full_

_\- Wictionary_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

**2013**

I refused to acknowledge my brother while I held the pack of frozen peas against my face.  It wasn’t going to stop the bruising, it was already too late for that - not that it would last much longer, but it did help numb the stinging ache.  

“So, I take it the good doctor didn’t take your resurrection quite as well as you had hoped?”

I dropped the peas in the sink and headed towards the door.  I didn’t want to have this conversation. 

“Why do you even have frozen peas” I asked instead as I sailed past my brother, refusing to have my pride pulled down any further than it had been.  “I thought pre-packed goods were below you.”

“Consider it foresight” Mycroft sighed and much to my chagrin, followed me down the hall.  I replied by flipping him the bird and turned into the small sitting room at the back of the house, swinging the door shut behind me.  It never slammed because Mycroft, the arse that he is, caught it in time and pushed it open to continue following me in.

“What did you honestly expect to happen?” he asked, shutting the door and blocking my exit from the room by positioning his fat arse in front of it.

“I expected him to be happy that I was alive” I snapped.  It turned out we were having this conversation after all.  

“Sherlock, he grieved for you, for two years” Mycroft reasoned.

“I was gone for three years last time, and then I was greeted with a hug upon my return” I reasoned back, although I was pretty sure it came of as sulky and surly.

“He is a different person” Mycroft started but I cut him off.

“He is John, he will always be John.”

“He is a different _person,_ Sherlock.  Same soul, but different person.  How many of the past Johns have been as disinclined to put up with your bad tempers and quite frankly childish behaviour.”

I didn’t answer.  We both knew that this John was the only one who had never actually put up with most of my bullshit.

“And how many of them watched you kill yourself as you said goodbye to them.”

The words were said with a softness and kindness I didn’t generally associate with my brother, but they ripped at my chest and I couldn’t stop the mournful groan that formed in my throat.  I had done this to myself.  I had turned John Watson, the only man who I would ever love, away from me.  I had made the man hate me, and all because I had wanted to save him.

My shoulders slumped forwards and my head hung down.  I honestly did not know how to fix this - if I could fix this.

“Go to bed, Sherlock.  It has been god knows how long since you have had a decent nights sleep.  Maybe tomorrow you will both be feeling better and then you could maybe discuss this like rational adults, instead of children.”

I soon found myself alone in the sitting room and with nothing better to do, took Mycrofts advice and took myself to bed, despite knowing it was going to be a fruitless effort even trying.  

Within less than a minute of closing my eyes, I was asleep and my dreams were filled of John and how I had imagined our reunion would be.

~o~

 _I couldn’t believe it.  That_ dickhead, _that wanker, that_ fucking bastard _.  All this time he had fucking been alive.  He had been out there, doing god knew what, but it certainly wasn’t sitting here feeling useless and guilty and feeling as if he were wasting away.  Well, as wasting away as one can feel for someone who cannot die, but that really wasn’t the point._

 _That, that…that utter twat of an arsehole had made me watch as he threw himself off of a fucking building.  He listened to me as I broke when I held his hand to find it lacking the beat that would confirm that he was indeed alive.  He let me believe,_ for two fucking years _that he was dead and that I was alone, because even before I had become some mutant type of freak he was the only one who really understood me and had he been here eight months ago when I realised that I had essentially become immortal, he would have understood then too, because there was only one way that arsehole could actually have survived that spectacular nose dive he had taken off of a multiple story building and that was because he was like me.  Whatever it was that that prick had, he had somehow transferred it onto me during our time living together and the utter bellend hadn’t thought it would be nice to inform me about it all before he faked his_ Fucking Death!!!

 _I slumped into my chair and stared at the one across from me as Mrs Hudson tittered away in the kitchen, alternating between tutting and humming.  Unlike myself, who was completely unimpressed with Sherlocks miraculous return, she had been torn between angry and utterly delighted by the fact and was currently making me a cup of tea to ‘_ help me get over the shock.’ _It wasn’t shock I was feeling at that moment and it was certainly going to take a hell of a lot more than tea to get over it.  I had started to feel better when my hands were around his scrawny fucking neck, but they had been pried off and then I could no longer look at_ him _so I had stormed off with him calling after me, thankful for the taxi that had pulled up at the first summons.  I was also thankful that Clara had stayed blissfully quiet all the way to her flat._

_“Think it over before you try and strangle him again” she had told me, kissing my cheek as she got out of the cab.  “I don’t fancy having to visit you surrounded by ten other criminals, and you’d look horrible in orange.”_

_I had given her a small, reassuring smile to let her know that I wasn’t going to kill the fucking tosser and that was when it hit me.  He had been dead, he should still be dead.  Just like me.  But he wasn’t .  That arse-hat was just like me.  It was his fucking fault that I was the way I was.  I was going to kill that knob-face and when he came back to life, I was going to fucking kill him again._

_“Here you go, dear” Mrs Hudson said, placing a cup in my hand.  She then went over and sat on the chair opposite me, sipping on her own tea.  “Don’t worry, you’ll calm down eventually” she reassured, but I wasn’t convinced._

_“Nope” I replied stubbornly.  “Think I’m gonna stay pissed at him forever” I told her, not caring how childish I sounded._

_“That’s an awful long time dear.” (She had no idea.)  “How about next Saturday instead.  That gives you a week.  A much more manageable time.”_

_A small scoff of laughter left my mouth.  Trust Mrs Hudson to be so practical.  “I don’t think so Mrs H.  Not this time.”_

_The woman across from me just shook her head.  “You boys always did have the most dramatic tiffs I have ever seen, and my husband ran a drug cartel, so that’s saying something.  But you always made up again.  It is just who you are.  It is why you are so perfect for each other.”_

_I let out a sigh.  This was a long running argument between myself and everyone else.  “Mrs Hudson, me and Sherlock were never going out with each other.”_

_She just tutted my comment away with a wave of her hand.  “Nonsense.  Just because the two of you were too stubborn to do anything about it didn’t mean you didn’t love each other.  It was why you stayed with him, even though he drove every single one of your nice young lady friends away and it was why he listened to you when you nagged him about sleeping and eating.  You loved each other then, that was as obvious as day, and you still love each other now.  I don’t need to be a genius to see that, just alive.”_

_I went to go open my mouth to deny everything, but the woman stood up.  “I need to be going” she told me.  “Time for my soother” and then she was gone and I was alone._

_I sat in my chair a bit longer, mulling over the past two and a half hours.  All that had happened and all that Mrs Hudson had said._

_Unfortunately she was right.  God help me, I did love the mad bastard.  Still._

~o~

This wasn’t going quite like I had imagined.  I had almost fallen out of bed that morning, in utter surprise when John had messaged at 6:17am to tell me that I had between 6:30 and 7:30 that night to explain to him whatever it was I wanted to explain.  

I had spent the day nervously pacing Mycrofts house, pissing off both Lestrade and my brother as it was a rare day off they had together and could I please not ruin it with my fidgeting and grumbling.  I had messaged John twice to enquire as to if I could arrive early.  The first one went unanswered.  The second one told me to fuck off and leave him alone before he changed his mind.  I didn’t dare try push him any further, so at ten past six, I hailed a taxi and directed it towards Baker Street.  I arrived with three minutes to spare and stood on the steps until six-thirty on the dot.  Then I pulled my keys out of my pocket and went to insert the correct one into the lock, stopping as the tip was in, wondering if I was allowed to just let myself in any more.  Technically it was no longer my home.  

The dilemma was taken out of my hands when the door swung open and with a surprised ‘ _Oh_ ’ from Mrs Hudson, I was immediately swept into a hug.  It wasn’t until I felt her small arms around me that I realised how much I had really missed all of this.  

“Oh, you silly boy” she scalded lovingly.  “I don’t care why you did it, you just go up there and make it all alright again.”  When she pulled back there were tears rimming her eyes, but she smiled at me, and with a gentle pat to my arm, she stepped aside and ushered me into 221 Baker Street.  

Once I had moved up the stairs, John had been waiting for me.  He stood aside and allowed me entry into the flat.  I took my chair and he took his and then I opened my mouth to explain everything.

“I don’t want to hear excuses or apologies” John stated before I could utter a word.  “I don’t want you to tell me what you think I want to hear.  I don’t want to hear lies.  If any of that is what you had intended to tell me then leave now.  If not, then I suggest you pick your words very carefully because if for one second I think that you are wasting my time I will kick your scrawny arse out of here and you will not see me again.”

The look on Johns face told me that he was telling the truth.  If I fucked up now I lost John until the next time round and I couldn’t bare that.  Not again.  Not after everything.  

That was why, nearly fifteen minutes later I was still sitting in my chair and still hadn’t uttered a single syllable.

“Moriarty” I finally started and gave a small cringe.  It wasn’t what I had wanted to say, but John hadn’t moved to start his promised eviction, so I continued.  “That day, on the roof of Barts, I met Moriarty.”  I gulped down the lump that was forming in  my throat as I stared at John who was still sitting there with a blank expression.  “He had devised the whole Brooke persona to discredit me, which I am sure you are aware of by now.  What he wanted was for me to kill myself, to finish off his story.”

Still, there was no movement from John, so I continued.  “If I didn’t kill myself, then he had three men ready to kill Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and…you.”  The last word came out as a strangle whisper.  Just the thought of my John dying, again, still made my mind want to go into panic mode, even though I knew the danger had passed.  “He killed himself, so there was no way the snipers could be called off.  It was me, or…” I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.  It was then that John finally spoke.

“How did you survive?” he asked.  “I saw you jump.  I saw your body.  You were most definitely dead.  So, how did you do it?”

This was the tricky part.  As much as I wanted to tell John everything, it just wasn’t a plausible option.  If anything, it would make him leave.  Again.

“Mycroft and myself had set up a number of contingency plans” I said, deciding to go with the original story my brother and I had concocted.  “We used a series of coded messages to implement these plans and when Moriarty’s real motive was revealed we put into place one of the plans that involve an elaborate set-up with multiple players.  It was…”

“Get out.”  My mouth snapped shut at Johns sudden command and I felt a light sweat break out at the anger that was in his eyes.  

“I beg your pardon” I managed to get out without stammering, but only barely.

“I told you, that if you were going to lie to me, you would leave and that would be the end of everything.  You have lied to me so, get.  Out.”  His order was punctuated by a hand pointing towards the door.  

My eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger and I tried to protest, but my mouth was busy doing an impersonation of a gaping fish and nothing resembling any form of vocalisation was coming out.

“I’m serious Sherlock.  I do believe you have wasted enough of my time for one life time.  I don’t fancy having any more wasted so, I repeat.  Get the fuck out of my life.  If you want the flat back, fine, it’s yours, but you can give me to the end of the week to pack up my belongings and find new lodgings.”

“But, I’m not lying, John” was all I could get out as the thought of John, no longer at Baker Street ran through my head.

“BULLSHIT!” he roared, pulling me out of my head and I couldn’t help but gape up at the man who was now standing and clenching his fists at his side, as if restraining himself from making true on his threat and physically kicking me out of the flat.  

“And do you know _how_ I know it is all bullshit, Sherlock?”  I didn’t get a chance to answer.  “I know it’s all bullshit because I know that you can’t actually fucking die.”  The fact that John was practically screaming was barely notable as the words he had just yelled at me were still echoing in my head.  

It wasn’t possible.  There was no way that he could have known this.  Mycroft assured me that he had been genuinely grieving, as much as it broke my heart to hear, and he had also promised that he would not divulge my secret to John.  Greg had sworn he had kept our secret, as much as it had bothered him to do so, and nobody else, apart from Mummy and Father, knew, so how was it possible that this man, this brilliant and terrifying man knew my biggest secret.  

“I know that fall killed you, but I also know that several hours later you were alive and running around doing god knows what.”  Nursing a splitting headache and trying to relax cramped muscles, but I didn’t think that John wanted to hear that just yet, because he was no longer yelling at me.  No, his voice had dropped to that dangerous whisper he had when he was about to rip someone to shreds.  And if his previous words had bowled me over, his next words left me absolutely paralysed.  “And do you know how I know that you recovered from a fatal fall?  Well, here’s a fucking funny story for you Sherlock.  Whatever the fuck is wrong with you is apparently contagious because do you want to know what?”  I was trying my very best not to hyperventilate, because my brain wanted to believe that it knew what his next words were going to be, but my heart couldn’t believe it.  “No matter how hard I try, turns out I can’t fucking die either.”

The sob that left my mouth was loud and my body slumped forward with the effort of letting it out.  It wasn’t possible.  It was everything I had ever wanted but it just wasn’t possible.  John didn’t love me.  I would have known.  I would have felt it.

“So, Sherlock, you can take your fucking lies and get the fuck out of my life.  I don’t want to see you again.”  

I only just registered that he was turning and leaving the room, and quickly, so quick I almost stumbled, I lurched out of my chair and grasped onto Johns wrist, stopping him from going any further.  “John” I whispered horsely.  “Wait.”

“Let go” John growled.

“I can explain” I pleaded, my grip tightening.  I couldn’t let him leave.  I just couldn’t.

A dark, humourless chuckle came from John and I again found myself wincing.  “No, you can’t.  You can lie to me and that’s it.  I’ve had enough Sherlock.  I can’t do this anymore.”

I bit my lip to stop my eyes from watering, but it was no use, so instead, I focused on getting John to hear me out.  Just one more time.  

“I promise.  No lies.  No omissions.  All cards laid out on the table.  Complete honesty.” When John showed no signs of giving in I tried one last tactic.  “I will tell you everything I know, and then I will leave.  It will be up to you whether you want me back again.  I promise” and with that, I let go of his wrist, leaving him free to make the choice.  

I clenched my hands, hoping to stop the tremble that had developed as I waited for what seemed like an eternity for John to make a decision.  Finally he turned to me, and with a glower he said “You have ten minutes.”

~o~

 _I watched as Sherlocks faced conveyed about four or five different emotions in the span of six seconds, trying to decide what to tell me, or how to do it.  Eventually he settled on resigned and made his way to his chair and slumped down, waving a hand in the direction of my chair to indicate that I should do the same.  I almost felt petty enough to stay standing, but then thought better of it._ One last chance _.  That was what he asked for, and I had granted it.  It would be rude to be uncooperative._

_With a deep breath, Sherlock started.  “My mother met my father for the first time in 1618” he started and I gave a short nod before my brain calculated that that was nearly four hundred years ago.  Before I could point out Sherlocks mistake, he continued.  “She was to see him die twice, before he fell in love with her in 1732.”_

_“That’s not possible” I stammered, even though I knew that, yes, it was apparently very possible._

_A wry smile spread across Sherlocks lips and I saw, really saw, how exhausted the man looked.  “But it is though, isn’t.  Now be quiet.  I only have eight minutes and 47 seconds left.”_

_I snapped my mouth closed to all further questions and let him continue, uninterrupted._

_“Over the years the two of them had children, Mycroft and I.  It shouldn’t have been possible, but it was.  In 1870 Mycroft fell in love when he met his soul mate, the one he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.  To this day they are still together and more often than not, still as in love with each other since the day Lestrade realised he too loved my brother.”_

_It took a few seconds to realise what I was hearing.  It took only a brief heart beat later for anger to start flaring up.  Both Mycroft and Greg were like me…like us.  They had know that Sherlock was alive all this time yet they had still let me grieve.  My growing anger was clearly evident on my face._

_“Before you pass judgement on either my brother or Lestrade, I suggest you hear out the rest of the story.”_

_Again, my jaw clenched in order to stop me from voicing my opinion, and I held my hands in my lap, both clenched into tight fists.  I would let Sherlock finish explaining before I reacted._

_“It should have been barley possible for my parents to have children, but they did.  Twice.  It should have been even less probable that those children would carry the forever gene, but again, the Holmes family defied the odds.  It should have been impossible for both children to be effected so, but in 1874 I met a young man and it became apparent that the Holmes family were indeed a rarity, for it was then that I too stopped ageing, stopped, dying.  I spent 36 years with that man.  I saw him grieve, twice, I saw him love, I saw him grow and then I saw the man that I loved, die.  It broke my heart.  But it was all fine.  Six years later I met him again.  Only one person in the whole world, in all the times had those eyes.  This time he was a young boy.  I thought that maybe, this time, I had found him for good.  This time it would last.  He would grow and eventually he would love me in return.  But it wasn’t to be.  That very afternoon, he was run down by a drunkard operating a cab.  The kind pulled by horses, he was trampled and died almost instantly of internal injuries.”_

_It was only brief, but it was there, the frown of one who was trying to hold back tears, and the man across from me blinked rapidly as he turned his face to look at the fireplace as he continued his story._

_“In 1940 I came across a homeless man rummaging through our bins in the early morning hours.  Imagine my surprise when I found out it was him.  He ran and it took me a while to find him, thus the birth of my homeless network, but find him I did and it was the same man, older than the last time I had seen him.  For five years we were happy together and then I made the mistake of telling him that I loved him.  He left me and a year later he killed himself.  I promised I would never tell him again, if I were lucky enough to find him.  I couldn’t do that to myself.  Three times of seeing my soulmate die was enough.  I wouldn’t have been able to bear watching it happen again.  Or so I thought.  In 1965 I found him again.  This time I distanced myself, but he managed to wrangle his way into my life once more.  In 1971 he was dead, again because of me.  Shot in the gut.  He was dead before he got to the hospital.”_

_There was silence in the flat, but I knew that it wasn’t the end of his story.  I knew there was more.  A small part of me knew how the story was going to continue - in the lab at Bart’s hospital - but a bigger part of me told me that it wasn’t true.  Those others can’t have been me.  I didn’t believe in reincarnation and I certainly didn’t believe that I was Sherlock Holmes’ soul mate.  It wasn’t possible.  His soul mate would be someone interesting, especially if they had to spend an eternity together.  Sherlock liked to remind me frequently of how ordinary I was.  After another few years he’d be sick of me, surely._

_“I wanted to give up, I really did, I couldn’t keep going through all of that, time and time again, but I couldn’t help myself.  Over the years I looked for him.  It became easier to search for people, what with the introduction of the internet, and with my brothers role in the government, not that he was much help, the pompous arse.”_

_I couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped my lips.  It seemed nothing had changed between those two.  My reaction caused Sherlock to return his gaze, from the fire place back to me and the look that was in his eyes was deep and pleading._

_“In 2010 I stopped looking” he said.  There was silence in the room again.  Words unspoken making themselves loud and clear.  I was indeed that man._

_The silence obviously became too much and Sherlock looked away again.  “Apparently it turns out that Moriarty was also a forever” he began and the moment was lost.  “We met back in 1884.  At first I had believed him to be just a man.  A very intelligent and very dangerous man, but just a man all the same.  At the risk of sounding unoriginal, I faked my death then, as well, plunging over the falls of Richenbach, taking the man with me, assuming that I had killed him once and for all.  I then spent three years away, making sure all threats of him were taken care of.  It appears history likes to repeat itself.”_

_A sad smile touched his mouth and his eyes as he remembered.  I too felt a wave of melancholy wash over me._

_“It seems that Moriarty was also unaware that I was immortal as it wasn’t until the 60’s that he came across me again.  It was then that he started to become fascinated with me again.  Obsessed, even.  It was also when his other half started to grow a conscience, not wanting to live out the rest of eternity killing people.  Moriarty grew tired of him and found a way to kill him, also rendering himself mortal once more.  He passed the knowledge on how to achieve this to three people.  If I didn’t appear to kill myself and then leave forever, he would kill the man that I loved for good and then I would be left forever, alone and all because he was bored._

_“I couldn’t risk that happening, so once he shot himself in the head, I jumped.  I then spent the next two years hunting down those three people and making sure the knowledge was not passed onto anyone else.”  At this he turned his attention back to me.  “Seeing you, hearing you, as I lay on the pavement and not being able to comfort you was the most painful thing I have ever endured.  If there could have been another way, trust me, I would have taken it.  That John, is the truth.”_

_I couldn’t say anything.  I had so much to ask, yet didn’t know how to voice any of it._

_“It is uncanny how different you were, yet always so alike” Sherlock offered thoughtfully._

_“How so?” I managed to get out.  This was still too much._

_“For instance.  That chair you are sitting in has been reupholstered three times, since I have lived here, yet you always seem to take it as yours.  Same as that cushion that is supporting your lower back.”  I pushed back against the Union Jack cushion that was wedged between me and the chair.  “The last you bought that.  Then there is the chronicling of our time together.”_

_“What, other me’s had a blog?”  It was a stupid question, and not one I expected an answer for, but I was still trying to wrap my brain around everything I had just heard._

_“Sort of.” Was the reply.  “Plus you have all had an extremely unhealthy obsession with tea.”_

_Tea.  For the first time I could remember, tea was not sounding like a grand idea just then.  What I needed was to get out.  To be on my own.  To just leave, so I stood up._

_“I’m going for a walk” I said bluntly and left the apartment, not sure if I cared if Sherlock would be there or not when I got back, but I was stopped before I reached the door._

_“Wait, just…I…”_

_I stopped at the door, waiting for Sherlock to continue, not daring to look at him.  The sound of his voice, broken and almost tear filled.  I couldn’t see that as well and walk away, but I needed to be alone right now._

_“John” he said, barley above a whisper.  “I am sorry, but please believe me, I…” the sound of him swallowing heavily could be heard and then four words that squeezed my chest too much were uttered.  “I do love you” and I had to leave because if I stayed I was going to break._

~o~

I hadn’t been thrown out o the flat, so I guess that was a good thing, but John had left and that was a bad thing.

I had explained things, as best as one could when they only had ten minutes and I didn’t know if it was enough.  I didn’t know if John was coming back or if I was meant to be gone when he arrived.  

I had told him, straight out, that I loved him and he had run away again.  It was 1945 all over again and panic wrapped itself around my gut and around my heart and it was all I could do not to run after him, not sure what would happen, if I would see him again.  I knew he had questions and I knew he needed to sort through everything.  It was that knowledge that anchored me to my chair.  He needed time.  In the mean time, my brother could be useful.

**I need you to trail John, just to keep an eye on him.**

**He left the flat four minutes ago.  SH**

The reply came two minutes later. 

**Is in Regents.**

**Things progressing then? MH**

I ignored the question, instead making a demand of my own.

**There is an oak trunk in storage.  I need it ASAP.  SH**

Again, the reply was not long coming.

**Consider it done. MH**

While I waited, I thought about everything that had transpired this evening.  John had fallen in love with me.  He had finally fallen in love with me.  I should have been ecstatic, jubilant, _over the moon_.  This should have been the happiest day of my life.  Instead I was feeling lost and confused, and if I was being honest with myself, quiet panicked.  

How did no one notice that John had fallen in love with me?  When exactly had John found out and what in blazing hell had he meant when he had said ‘ _No matter how hard I try, turns out I can’t fucking die either._ ’?  What did he mean, no matter how hard he tried?  When had he tried?  What had he tried?  Mycroft was meant to have been keeping a bloody eye on him.  What was the point of having an interfering sibling when they weren’t going to bloody well interfere!  And what the hell was John thinking?  I hadn’t killed myself so he could try and do the same.  I had done it so he would live.  It was always so he could bloody live.

By the time that Mycrofts men had arrived to drop off my trunk I was in a right foul mood.  Of all the stupid things John could have done in my absence.  And here I thought the worst I would have to contend was coming home to find he had married someone…again.

It wasn’t long after Mycrofts men had left that John returned and I had calmed down somewhat.  John had allowed me to talk.  I would offer him the same courtesy, so I was pleased when he arrived home and went into the kitchen, after removing his jacket, and started making tea for two, rather than telling me to leave.

As the water was boiling John stood in the doorway between the living room and kitchen and looked at me.

“I’m going to assume that you started living forever when you realised you loved me” John stated and I nodded.  “And the only way I was to be the same as you, was to realise that I felt the same about you.”  I nodded again, ignoring the pained feeling at the way John avoided saying that he loved me, but I suppose, he was still very angry.  “Right.”

I watched as he walked into the kitchen and finished making the tea.  He came back with two mugs and sat one in front of me and then paced in front of the couch with his own.  He still had questions, and John being the man that he was, was probably trying to think of an orderly, sensible way to ask them all.

“What’s with the trunk?” he asked, stopping in front of the large box, that wasn’t there when he left.

“Your stuff” I replied and when he shot me a querying look, I continued.  “I kept something from all of the other you’s.  Everything is in there” I explained nodding down at the trunk.  

“Do you mind…” he asked, the hand not holding his tea reaching towards the trunk.  

“Not at all” I said.  “It technically is yours after all.”

John knelt down in front of the trunk and I absently acknowledged that his leg was stiff.  _Psychosomatic._ He opened the lid and just looked in the box for a few moments before pulling out the top most item.  It was the kite.  

Quietly I explained that John to him.  By the time I had finished, he had tears in his eyes.  Next was the photos.  He went through every single one of them, laughing at a few of the more absurd ones, as I told the story of that John.  His face hardened at the mention of the drugs and the overdose, but he said nothing and he put the box of photos to the side.  

Next was the handwritten Journals of John three.  This was the most painful retelling. 

“Now you know why I didn’t want to tell you I loved you.  That knowledge killed you once.  I wasn’t going to let it happen a second time.”

John hung his head over the closed journal, his eyes closed, clearly having an internal battle with himself.  Eventually he opened his eyes.  

“I didn’t realise until I saw you lying there, dead on the pavement” he told me quietly.  “The way it hurt to see you like that. To know that you weren’t going to be there anymore.  I knew then that I loved you.”

Despite knowing it was true, it had to be true, I hadn’t really believed it until then.  It was not until I had heard him utter those three words did I allow myself to finally realise that it was all over.  There would be no more searching, no more grieving, no more heartbreak.  Well, no, that one wasn’t true.  We still had to get past all of this.

John placed the last of Three’s journals to the side and then reached in and pulled out a thick tome.  It was all of the original John’s stories, typed up.  I had had them bound into two books.  One with the unpublished stories and one with the stories that had been printed in the paper.  

“They are the original stories of Sherlock Holmes” I told him as he carefully opened the thick leather cover.  “You used to write stories for the local paper and most of them were a recount of our, frankly, ridiculous adventures.”  

“Sherrinford Owens?”  He asked quietly, running a finger over the page.

“I wasn’t keen on the attention that would have come from being a household name.”

John let out a huff of laughter and closed the book, before pulling out the second one, and I told him all about John from back then.

“I was married?” he asked and I nodded.  “Children?”  I shook my head, and he gave an understanding nod.  John closed the cover on the second book and quietly he placed all of the items back in the trunk.

I noted that he looked sad and weary, but I somehow knew, that despite the late hour, tonight wasn’t over.  We both still had questions.  

“How did you know?” I asked, trying to stay calm, trying not to get angry again. 

“Know?”  John asked looking up at me.

“That you couldn’t die?”

John seemed to think on his answer for a bit and then he said simply.  “Some bastard thought he’d shoot me in the head.”  I know it was wrong but my anger fled and happiness filled its place.  “Then, when I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it, I carried out a few tests.”

The happiness stopped and I looked to John, who was still looking at the trunk in front of him, and he continued to casually explain what he meant by tests.

“At first I tried pricking and cutting my fingers.  They healed quiet well, so I tried different parts of my body, making longer deeper gashes.”

The anger started welling up again.

“I tried burning myself and I even dropped a bowling ball on my foot.  Fuck that hurt and why do you even have a bowling ball anyway?”

“Experiment” I replied through clenched teeth, certain that if I tried to say something else, it would lead to John forcibly evicting me from the flat. 

“Then I overdosed on strong pain medication mixed with alcohol, inducing a fatal heart attack and finally, I placed my gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“Are you fucking mad” I roared, no longer able to hold in the anger.  Of all the fucking, stupid, imbecilic things he could have done.

“You purposely shot yourself in the head.  What in the world were you thinking.  Are you fucking insane, John.  How could you have been certain that you wouldn’t have died?”

“Well, maybe, you colossal arse, you should have thought about that before you made your best friend watch you throw yourself off of a fucking building!” John was yelling now as well and it wasn’t helping my mood at all.

“You weren’t supposed to have been there.  It was why I sent you away.”

“Oh, what, so it’s my fault now!” John pushed himself up from where he was sitting on the ground, to a standing position, so he was now looming over me.  “What the fuck did you think I was going to do without you Sherlock.  Carrying on was a fucking chore.  When I placed the gun in my mouth a small part of me was actually hoping that I was going mad and that when I pulled the trigger, I wouldn’t…”

“ENOUGH.”  

I was also standing now, breathing heavily through my nose.  I had honestly never been so angry in my life.  This wasn’t what was supposed to have happened.  This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.  

“Fuck this” John growled and then he was gone again, the downstairs door slamming announcing his exit from the building.

~o~

_I hunched my shoulders and made my way back down Baker Street.  The cold was much worse now that I had calmed down.  Unfortunately it made my shoulder and my leg ache and I couldn’t help the slight shuffle of my foot when I walked.  I knew why Sherlock was angry, I really did, and I supposed it was fair that he was upset that I had essentially tried to kill myself even though I was almost 100% certain that it was impossible.  After all.  I had been angry with him for the same reason and he had a more viable reason to do so._

_Because he loved me._

_And wasn’t that just another shock to the system.  Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson.  We were each others soul mates.  We were going to spend an eternity together.  Because I loved him too. Even now._

_I reached the flat and looked up .  The light was still on.  That didn’t mean that Sherlock was still home.  Home?  Was this still his home?  God, it was all so fucked up._

_I let myself into the flat and made my way upstairs.  Sherlock was still there, laid out on the couch, just like the old days._

_I smiled at that thought.  The old days for him, were quite different to my old days, that was certain and I started trying to imagine what he was like back then, all those times that we were together.  The smile faded as I realised that I would never have those memories._

_“You still have questions” came the quiet voice from the couch and I looked up from where I was still standing in the doorway, not at all surprised to see that the man hadn’t even opened his eyes yet._

_I did, I had so many questions, and I was only glad that it seemed we had forever to answer them all.  With that though I decided to start with the more recent events._

_“Where were you?  These past years, where were you?”_

_Sherlock opened his eyes and seemed to study the ceiling before sitting up properly on the couch._

_“After I fell, after I had seen you on the pavement outside the hospital, I was taken to the morgue.  From there I was taken to a private Jet and went over to Switzerland.  We knew Moriarty had networks there.  I spent two months in that part of Europe.  After then, Mycroft felt it was enough time for him to meet up with me without it seeming too suspicious.  We couldn’t have anyone know I was alive.  From there, I shared what I had learnt and then continued through Europe, working my way through Asia and over to America.  I then came back to Ireland then to the Middle East before finding my way back to Europe.  There I was captured and held for a few weeks before my brother finally decided that he might want to get me out of that hell hole.  Imagine my captors delightful surprise when they realised they couldn’t kill me.”_

_“You were tortured” I stated horrified.  For a few weeks, he had been tortured and killed over and over again.  I could only imagine that horror when the idiot just brushed my concerns away with a wave of his hands I became furious.  “They tortured you and no one came for_ a few weeks!” I spat.

_“Trust me, not a single one of them are alive to tell anyone about it.  My brother made sure of it.”_

_Fine, if that idiot wasn’t going to talk about it, neither was I.  I had other questions he could answer.  “Where is moriarty now?” I asked, making my way over to my chair and sitting down._

_“Dead” was the simple, certain reply that I got._

_“Are you 100% certain?”  I wouldn’t put it past that sneaky bastard to show up when we least expected it.  I didn’t trust him to stay dead._

_“Mycroft has him at a facility” Sherlock told me, looking me in the eye to convey that he was in fact telling the truth._

_“Baskerville?” I asked.  God only knew what they would do with his remains there.  Probably make an army of indestructible soldiers using his DNA.  I shivered at the thought.  No one should have that power._

_“It may as well be, but no.  This one is run by people like me.  Like us.” Then just to prove that he could still read my mind he added on “ And no, they are not using him for research.  Just observation.”_

“How many are there?”

_“Like us?”  I nodded.  “That we know of - 87 pairs and 17 singles still looking for their other halves.”_

_“And the people who know how to stop us all?”_

_“As far as I am aware, gone, but no-one can be completely certain.”_

_We sat together in silence, neither of us looking at each other, neither of us speaking, neither of us knowing how to move on.  Eventually I decided I had another question._

_“You said you were conscious, while on the ground” I asked, looking over to see he had stretched back out on the couch.  He turned his head to look at me.    “How?  I mean, I’ve died, twice and not once was I conscious immediately afterwards.”_

_“Yes well, you had a bullet rip through your brain…twice.” The look he gave me a he told me this was not a happy or impressed statement.  “Of course it was going to shut down.”_

_For some reason I found that I could no longer look at him.  His anger was there, only just, but it was the pained look of despair that I couldn’t handle.  Guilt washed over me for putting that look on Sherlocks face and then anger took over.  Why should I feel guilty.  I wasn’t the one who had been left in the dark.  I had been the one to feel like a failure for keeping their friend alive.  I had been left to live a half life, trying to keep on going whilst pretending to the rest of the world that everything was fine. I was the one who had been lied to._

_Why did I also have to feel guilty._

_Without a word, I stood up and left the flat for the third time that evening._

_It was the longest walk I had taken and nearly two hours later that I returned to the flat.  The ground floor was dark, with only a small light in the entrance hall lit.  Mrs Hudson had clearly retired for the night.  Looking up the stairs I saw that the living room lights were still on.  Slowly, not sure what was going to greet me, I made my way up the stairs.  A part of me hoped that Sherlock would still be waiting.  Despite my anger I couldn’t deny the happiness I felt at having him back and when he wasn’t in my line of sight, a part of me told me that it was all a dream.  Then there was the part of me that hoped he had become sick of waiting for me and had left because I was tired._

_I wanted to sleep._

_When I reached apartment B it was to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, his coat on and his scarf wrapped around his neck._

_When he saw me, he stood up._

_“I have well and truely exhausted my allocated ten minutes” he said quietly, the small half smile on is face at trying to alleviate the situation with humour, not reaching his eyes.  I just nodded, not sure what else to say._

_“You have my number, if you have any more questions.  Failing that, I am staying at Mycrofts.”  I didn’t miss the hint of a sneer at that revelation, but even if I had anything to say to it, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have got the chance because Sherlock pulled out his gloves and slipped one on as he continued to talk._

_“I’ll go now and let you think about everything I have told you.”  He slipped on the other glove and stepped past me, towards the door.  “As I said, I will leave it up to you to decide if you want to see me again.  If I don’t hear from you, then I will respect your wishes."_

_I watched as he stepped from the room, out onto the landing but I couldn’t let him leave without letting him know._

_“Sherlock” I called and he stopped, but didn’t turn around.  I swallowed twice before I forced my mouth to speak words that should have been easy to utter._

_“I do love you, you know.”_

_A tired smile pulled at his mouth.  “I know” he said and then took his leave._

~o~

It took two days for John to message me, asking me over for lunch.  In that time I had fallen into a state of utter despair.  The invitation had seen me pull myself out of it so quickly that after coming out of the shower, I had caught Lestrade going through my room looking for drugs.  

Lunch was simple and not much was said.  John spoke of the monotony of work, I spoke of the hardship of living under the same roof as Mycroft.  

Over the following two weeks, these little get togethers became more frequent to the point where they were daily.  Sometimes it was at the flat, other times it was somewhere else.  On a few occasions other people joined us - Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade - and sometimes it was dinner, rather than lunch.  

I started picking up small, private cases again, telling John about them with as much appeal as possible.  John didn’t offer to join me.  That was disappointing.    John shaved off his moustache.  That was pleasing.

Two weeks after our first talk I was lying in bed when a text message came through.  Just two words.

**Come Home.**

Despite the fact that it was 3:18 in the morning, I packed my bags and caught a taxi to Baker Street and for the first time in over two years, I let myself into the flat.

There was no sign of John, but my bed had been made with fresh sheets, tightly tucked hospital corners revealing who was responsible for the welcoming gesture.  

The following morning, John was mildly surprised to see me in the kitchen, microscope and several slides scattered over the table, but it was only brief and concealed rather well.  Nothing was said except “ _Morning_ ” as he made his way to the bathroom and I grunted out a familiar non-verbal response.

It seemed that even after a long period of absence, some things were never going to change.  

It took a further month for John to join me on a case and just like in the past, it was the case that was the catalyst for further change.

 

I groaned as the pain in my shoulder spread out and down my arm and chest.  In the distance I heard John swearing a blue streak, then there was what I was sure was a scuffle and then a dull _thunk_ followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground.  I knew I should have been worried, but I knew John would be alright.  He had no choice in the matter.  What I was more focused on now was the feeling of my body going into shock at being shot and the uncomfortable feeling of my body also rejecting the bullet, slowly pushing it out the way it had come in.  This was not a feeling I relished, no matter how novel it was.  

“Sherlock” John called and suddenly, where there was the night sky, Johns face pushed it’s way into my vision.  “Jesus, fuck.  Hold on.”  He spoke more to himself, getting himself into solid, calm, doctor-soldier mode and he pulled off his jumper and placed it over my shoulder.

I tried to shrug him off, but he just pushed harder.  “Fucking hold still” he snarled.  “You’re losing an alarming amount of blood.  He must have hit your thoracoacromial artery.”

I tried again to push John away, but the man is nothing if not stubborn, especially when in the role of doctor.

“Sherlock” he warned, using his Captain Watson voice and it still boggled me that he could swap roles so seamlessly in the span of only a few seconds.

“John, I am fine” I managed to get out through the pain lancing through my body.  “And you are only hindering the process, so please stop pushing on my shoulder.”

It took John a few seconds to catch on to what I was saying and when he did, he sat back on his heels and let his hands drop away from my shoulder.

“Give it another ten minutes or so and my body would have rejected the bullet.  You hindering the process is likely to make it last twice as long.”

John stared down at my shoulder and I wasn’t actually sure if he had heard my words or not.  

“I forgot” he finally said, quietly.  “I saw you get shot and drop and I panicked.  I forgot.”

I reached out my hand, ignoring how it pulled on the injury, and grasped Johns hand, now slick with my blood.  

“It’ll take a while.  It gets easier.  I promise” I reassured him.

He looked from my shoulder, up to my face.  “Yeah, but in the mean time, I wasted a perfectly good jumper on you. Nothing is going to get those blood stains out.”

It was said with such seriousness, that for a moment I thought he was actually worried about his jumper.  Then I caught just the slightest twitch in the corner of his lip.

“You should be thanking me.  That jumper was atrocious.”

At this John’s smile actually cracked and I couldn’t help but follow.  I am pretty sure we would have started giggling, but it was at that moment that Lestrade and Donavan chose to finally catch up.  

“What the fuck…” we heard Donovan exclaim from behind us.  She had obviously found Frankers.

“He shot Sherlock, I rendered him unconscious” John informed her, looking over his shoulder, and I could still see the frown on his face, daring Sally to challenge him on the issue.  

Obviously she decided that it would be a losing battle, so instead she just let out a sigh and asked if she needed to call for one or two ambulances.

“Just a flesh wound” Lestrade called, coming over to stand over Johns shoulder to look down at Sherlock.  “Barely a graze.  I’ve had worse bleeds from cutting my finger in the kitchen, preparing dinner.”

_What, did he cut off his whole fucking hand?_

“Fine” Sally sighed again, and proceeded to radio for medical assistance for the man who was still unconscious somewhere near the bins. In the mean time, Lestrade and John surrounded me, allowing me to compose myself so Sally wouldn’t notice how sever my wound actually was.  Thankfully my coat was dark and we were in a dark alley.  The blood wouldn’t be overly noticeable.  Johns hands were another matter.  They were covered in it.  

Reluctantly I pulled my gloves out of my pocket and indicated that he should put them on.  Something else the blood was never going to completely come out of.  Pity.  I liked those gloves.

As John was putting the gloves on, I felt a small pop at my shoulder and, with  bit of jiggling of my clothing, the bullet fell to the ground with a small jingle, causing Donovan to look up and over to us with a suspicious frown on her face.  

The three of us tried to look as innocent as possible and after a few seconds she went back to speaking to the other officer who had joined us.  

“Statements tomorrow, yeah?” John asked.  I could see Lestrade getting ready to say, no, we could bloody well come down and do it now.  Apparently John saw it to because he leaned over and said in a hushed tone, “He’s already lost too much blood.  I don’t care how invincible he thinks he is, he loses much more and he is going to pass out.”

Lestrade looked to Sherlock and then gave a curt nod.  “Tomorrow” he ordered and John placated his whimsy commands by agreeing and then proceeded to drag me out of the alley way, towards the road.  If he had grabbed my injured arm on purpose, in retaliation for giving him a fright I wasn’t sure, but it hurt like fucking hell.

By the time we reached home I was feeling considerably light headed and just getting me up the stairs proved to be quite a challenge.  

“Don’t move” John gruffed and then I must have passed out for a few seconds because suddenly he was in front of me with the first aid kit in his hand.  

With a lot more care then he usually offered me since I had returned, John stripped me of the top half of my clothing.  He then set about cleaning me with warm water from a bowl I hadn’t seen him get ( _So, maybe I had passed out for a few minutes_ ) and then set about sterilising the area and padding it to stop the flow of blood.  “Did you want me to suture it?” he asked.  I just shook my head.  It’d stop bleeding on its own soon.

“Here” John said and thrust a glass of water with one hand and two aspirin in the other towards me.  “Then bed.”  I didn’t have it in me to argue.  

John helped me stand and walked me to my room.  He helped me remove my shoes and socks and trousers and then helped me settle under the covers. 

“John” I murmured sleepily. 

The response I got was his hand brushing the hair off of my forehead and a ‘ _hmm?_ ’

“I love you.”   The words were thick and clumsy in my mouth, but I meant each one of them.   

I fell asleep with the feeling of Johns hand carding gently through my hair.  

 

“How’s the shoulder?” was the first thing I heard as I blinked my eyes open.  I gave it an experimental roll and then looked towards where the voice had come from.  John was sitting in my bed, in his pyjamas, with a book on his lap.  Judging by what I could read from the open pages, in my current position, it was one of his ridiculous crime novels.  

“Stiff, but it’ll pass” I told him and then looked from the book to Johns face.  “Why are you in my bed?”  I knew I shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth, but I was curious and me and curiosity never could stand to be in the same room for too long.

“Do you mind if I look?” John asked, ignoring my question, nodding down at my arm.

In response I rolled onto my back, making it easier for John to access my shoulder.

With gentle hands he lightly ran his fingers over the wound.  He carefully prodded the sight and I winced, knowing that, without even looking, there would be bruising and possibly even scaring still.  “Your colouring is better, and there doesn’t seem to be any infection” he relayed.  “Doubt there will be anything apart from a faint scar by the end of the day.”

I nodded my understanding, even though it wasn’t anything I didn’t already know, but if letting John play doctor helped keep him sane, then I would happily play patient. 

“You scared the fuck out of me” he said, sitting back against the headboard, his book now forgotten.  “I heard the gun shot and then saw you go down.  I thought I had lost you, _again_.”

I opened my mouth to go reassure him, once more, that it was impossible.  I would always be here, but he placed a hand over my mouth, stopping me from talking. 

“Shush” he said, but he didn’t remove his hand, despite my indignant frown at the way he had shut me up.

“I understand that you can’t die.  I get that, even though it sometimes, apparently, still slips my mind, but I lost you for two years and they were the worst two years of my life, yeah, so when I think you have been killed, even if it is for a brief second, my whole body feels like shrivelling up and dying as well because, Sherlock Holmes, I can’t fucking live without you, and if you ever leave me again, I promise I will hunt you down and make your life fucking miserable, am I understood?”

He wasn’t really, but I felt that if I offered anything other than a nod of my head, he would start making my life difficult right then and there.

“What I am trying to tell you is that I love you.  I think I always have.  It bothers me that I had the chance to love you so many times and I let them slip past.  I don’t want to keep going on pretending anymore.  I love you, we both know this, it’s a given, and I’ve thought about why you did what you did and why you didn’t tell me and I think I understand, maybe, but the point is, after seeing you get hurt again last night, I realised I don’t want to hold a grudge any more.  I know we have a long time together, but to be honest, I don’t want to waste another second being angry at you.  Well, at least not about this.  I’m still going to be pissed at you if you continue to contaminate the milk every other day and also if you keep…”

I didn’t wait to hear what else it was I could do that would piss John off.  I’m sure the list was extensive, but that didn’t matter, for right then I needed to kiss John, so that was exactly what I did.  I reached up and grabbed the back of his neck, and before he could protest, I pulled him down until his lips were firmly on mine.  

“ _Mmmf…Sher…Sh..lock_ ” he managed to get out between trying to pull away from the kiss.  Clearly I wasn’t being firm enough, so I pulled us together harder and continued to kiss him until he relented and started kissing me back.  I had waited far too long for this.  I had listened to far too many words.  The time for talking was up.  Now it was time for kissing and that was what we were doing, quite fantastically now that John was actively participating.

I knew at that moment that I would never tire of Johns lips against my own, ever.

My hand slid from Johns neck, down to his back and I decided that John was wearing far too many clothes.  Without waiting for further permission I pulled his top off and then pushed him over so I could tackle his pyjama bottoms.  John, once he got over the surprise of me ripping his top from him, attempted to struggle at having his bottoms also removed, but I personally felt that it was a half-hearted effort, so I made no move to stop until we were both in just our pants.

“Quite finished” John huffed, trying to sound annoyed, but I did notice that his eyes drifted from my face, down my body and stopping briefly on my groin before looking back up at me.  I grinned at him.  

“Not even nearly” I answered and then practically pounced on him, reattaching our lips once again.  

I pushed my tongue into Johns mouth and he surprised me by sucking on it.  I then surprised him by reaching between us and grabbing his cock, hard.

“Christ” John cried out, pulling away from my mouth.  _That was unappreciated._   “Give a guy some warning, yeah - heard of thing called foreplay?”

“A hundred and thirty nine years, John.  Consider foreplay over” and with that I grasped Johns pants and clumsily pulled them down one handed.  

John cursed under his breath, something about impatient twats, and then returned the gesture and pulled my pants off as well.

After a bit of uncoordinated squirming and kicking of legs we were finally both completely naked.  I pulled back and sat on my heels, in order to get a good look at John.  _My John_.  The small, compact, comfortable, safe figure he cut in his jeans and jumpers were a wonderful, deceitful, distraction for what was really there.  John was short and compact, there was no doubt about it, especially when the evidence was spread out before me, but there was nothing comfortable looking about the man nor was there anything safe.  

John was muscled.  Not ridiculously so, and not wiry like myself, but there was a broadness to him that came from having muscle.  He looked hard, despite there being no actual definition.  His thighs and calves looked strong and if I were to flip him over I knew his arse would be firm.  

His hands were small, but sturdy and strong.  I had seen John inflict pain and take down threats with those hands, small that they were.

The small scars that littered his body told the story of an active, adventurous life.  Skun knees and elbows from childhood games and dares, a scar from where a suspect had stabbed him in the thigh with a screwdriver, a small burn on his shin from a bonfire gone wrong, quite possibly while he was drunk.  Then there was the left shoulder.  A great big silvery web took up a bulk of it, displaying the exit wound from the bullet that ended his military career.  

Yes, John may be small, but he was by no means safe and he was mine.  All mine.  

I reached back and placed my hands on his ankles and slowly I dragged my hands up his shins and over his thighs.  They continued over his hips, and up his side, spreading out over his ribs, before sliding up over his chest, to finally settle on his shoulders.  Leaning over him I took his mouth again in another kiss, allowing entry of his tongue as I dipped my hips so my erection brushed over his.  This pulled a groan from the both of us so I pushed again, slowly, and again and again.  The friction was by no means enough to get us off, but it felt too good to stop, so I continued to gently rut against John as his hands gripped my hips.

“More” he gasped and, without warning, tightened his grip and pulled my hips down as he thrust up.  

“John” I moaned and started to grind against him, allowing him to push up against me.  The whole time my mouth teased his or ran down his jaw, sucking on his neck or biting his shoulder.  I kissed and sucked and licked and bit and all the time John made the most wonderful noises.  

It was as I was sucking on his ear when I felt his arm push between us and then his hand wrapped around us both.  I pulled back enough to allow my hand to also join his and together we pulled and squeezed, smearing pre-come along the way.  As the speed of our hands increased so did our thrusting and after only a few more tugs my back was arching and with a shout of Johns name I came, semen pulsing over our joined hands as my hips stuttered out of rhythm.  ‘ _Johnjohnjohnjohn_ ’ I chanted as I spent everything I had over John and not once did Johns grip falter.

Once I was finished, he let go of me and tightened his grip around his own cock, jerking furiously, whimpering and moaning.  Not wanting to miss out on making John orgasm, I wrapped my hand over his and stroked with him, running my thumb over the head a few times.  I used my other hand to reach down and gently cup his testicles, rolling them in my palm and with one firm squeeze John came with a string of unintelligible words, thick and warm over my hand.  

I reached over and grabbed the t-shirt I had pulled off of John earlier and wiped come off of our hands and Johns body, then, dropping the top to the floor, I flopped down, half landing on John and half on the mattress.

John made a poor attempt at seeming put out at being used as a human pillow, but as usual, I ignored him.  Eventually, he pulled his hands up and gently wrapped his arms around my waist, his left arm running slow tracks up my spine and back down again.

As we lay, all sweat and tangled limbs I relished in the feel of Johns hand lazily stroking my back and the sound of his heart thudding in his chest, still slowing down to normal.  I smiled at the thought of a lifetime of this and much more.

“There is a cottage” I told him languidly and his fingers changed from their up and down motion to a small circular motion, just under my shoulder blade.  “There are apple orchards and bee hives.”

“Sounds very much not like you at all” he murmured.

“It was very much me for six years, a long time ago” I replied and his fingers changed to a zig zag pattern.  I squirmed, that one actually did tickle, and he changed back to the up and down motion he had started with. 

“I haven’t been back there since 1910” I said and a few seconds later Johns hand stopped moving all together.

“It’s where you took the first John” John said slowly, as if he knew he was right, but there was a chance he was wrong.  I nodded against his chest, just once.  “To retire.”  I nodded again.

“Sooner or later, we will have to leave London.”  I hated the thought, but there was no way, in this day and age, to live forever in the same place and not have people notice.  Especially when everyone knew your face.  

“We can go there when we decide to retire.  You can grow vegetables and I can make honey.  You were once quite adept at making cider.”

Johns fingers resumed tracing patterns on my back again, this time left to right across my T12.  

“Mycroft and Lestrade have a villa in France.  I suspect they will be heading that way in about twenty years or so.  He also has one in Switzerland, but that is more of a holiday destination rather than a retirement plan, but if Sussex isn’t your thing then I am sure he would be happy to loan it to us for a while.”

I felt John take a deep breath and slowly let it out as he processes what I had told him.  I let him think and wait for him to speak before I said anymore.  

“Sussex sounds wonderful” he answered and he sounded happy.

“We can get a dog” I added on with a small grin of satisfaction.  I didn’t want to leave England either.  

‘We can call him Gladstone” he offered.

I scrunched my nose up at the suggestion.  What a ridiculous name.

John obviously noticed as his arm tightened around me and he chuckled.    “I don’t care where we are or what we do or if we have a dog named Gladstone or a cow called Daisy, so long as it is with you.  Always.”

I pulled away from John and looked down at him.  “Always” I agreed and leant down to kiss him.  

 _Always!_   It was certainly a rather fantastic way to begin the rest of your life.

 


End file.
